


I'll Get You There

by dramady, Falco



Category: Terminator Salvation (2009), Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-08
Updated: 2010-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-06 00:08:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dramady/pseuds/dramady, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Falco/pseuds/Falco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Co-written with FalcoConlon</b><br/><b>Warnings:</b>  Seeing as this is the Terminator 'verse, there is death, bad language and general unpleasantness. And m/m slash.<br/><b>Summary:</b> Welcome to the jungle / We take it day by day / If you want it you're gonna bleed / But it's the price you pay<br/><b>Disclaimer:</b> These characters belong to James Cameron, Josh Friedman and people who are not us. We are also poor. Please don't sue.<br/><b>Author Notes:</b>  This started out as a discussion of PORN. Then came the plot. We cherry-picked what we wanted from all over the place here, bringing in movie and TV verse as well as hearts_andminds 'verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Get You There

The others had been dismissed. The room was hollow and quiet around them but for the clank of the chains and the rush of air against metal of the tunnels. A man who was part machine. Who didn't know it. There was something that nagged at the back of his head and he stared at Marcus's face, his own drawn tight. _What are you_.

Who are you.

_You like it_. The memory hit him between the eyes and John staggered back a step. "Who are you?!"

"My name," was the reply, "my name is Marcus Wright." He'd done this. He'd told him this. Dull eyes dragged up to meet John's.

"Marcus Wright." John's jaw went slack before he grit his teeth together. He stepped closer. "Do you know me?"

"John Connor," he said, "I heard your voice, on the radio." He paused, head dropping. "Very inspiring."

"No. No." Taking his chin, John pulled it up, dipping his own to meet his gaze. "Do you know _me_."

It would be easier to answer these questions if he wasn't hanging from the ceiling, he thought, but didn't say it. "I've never met you," he said, confused by the touch at the chin. It was familiar and unsettling.

"You _have_ met me." John's grip tightened before he let him go. "You have." God_damnit_. No one ever remembered. Not Kate, no one. And Derek was gone, a dream. "You've met me." He stalked away, back to Marcus. "What about Haurvatat? Does that sound familiar?" His voice echoed off the walls.

"You have me chained to the ceiling, asshole," he said, voice gruff and unamused, "and I don't know what the fuck you're talking about."

"You're a threat." John turned around slowly. "You're a threat and can't be trusted."

_Do you want to kill me, Marcus?_

He walked closer again. "Do you want to kill me?"

"I don't want to kill you," he said, lip curled in disgust, "but I wouldn't mind beating the shit out of you." He needed to get out of here. He needed to find Kyle. Kyle was the only reason he'd come looking for Connor in the first place.

"Fuck you." John rolled his eyes. What was new? He looked at the door, they were still alone. Then he looked back at Marcus and studied him for a long moment. "You don't know me. At all."

"No!" he said, "but if you know me, would you cut the bullshit and tell me what the hell is going on?"

Walking over, boot heels loud on the floor, John yanked on one of the chains that pulled Marcus's wrists down and angled him over solid flooring. Then he unlocked the chain and set him free but for one ankle. "You know me," he hissed. "We met. You and I met and we-- we met. When I was seventeen. Almost eighteen. In Haurvatat."

Marcus looked down at the bound ankle and tugged on it a bit. "I don't know you," he said, not looking up, "I don't know what Haurvatat is. I woke up in LA two days ago."

"Nobody remembers." John scrubbed over his hair, over his face. Why did he bother? "We met. Just ... never mind. You woke up in LA, two days ago. You donated your body to science after being executed and woke up two days ago. You're trying to find K--"

Holy fuck.

"You're trying to find Kyle." Kyle.

They had to find Kyle. "Where is he?!"

"Skynet," Marcus said gruffly, still tugging on the chain, "San Fransisco. You know I could snap this, right?"

"Whatever. Skynet. San Francisco?" With the Resistance plan, that didn't give them much time.

_You loved her._

He could really live without the memories now. Really. John looked over at Marcus. "You can get in?"

Marcus looked up at him in surprise. "Yeah." And he knew it was true. "Look at me." Marcus gestured to his chest, blown half to hell with the Coltan exposed. "I can get in."

John nodded. "Should I trust you?"

"To get Kyle out?" he asked, tipping his chin up, "yes. You should."

Kate, the others, they would have John's head. They didn't understand. They didn't understand that his life had made him different, had made him this person who trusted machines. Perhaps more than he should. He tossed Marcus a communicator. "You can reach me that way. Don't be a hero. Just get in."

Marcus caught it, slipped it in his pocket and, taking a hold of the axle his ankle was still bound to, snapped the chain with a quick jerk of muscle and metal. "Never said I'd try and be a hero," he said, straightening again, "I'm not anything."

It was on the tip of John's tongue to say something to that. To answer or address.

He didn't.

He needed to figure out what to tell the others; there would be questions. "Wait." He walked up to Marcus. "Hit me." A hand up. "Don't kill me, just make it look good."

That he could do. Marcus drew back and slugged Connor across the jaw. Not hard enough to snap his neck, mind you, but certainly hard enough to knock him out. That done, Marcus took the man's jacket, shrugged it on and zipped it up to hide the damage, and jumped down into the pit he'd been hanging over. Easiest way out would be through the sewer he'd seen down there, and with any luck he'd be halfway to Skynet by the time they noticed he was gone.

+++++++++++++++

When he woke up, everything hurt. It was just that simple. John opened his eyes, first and looked around. Medical. Kate wouldn't be far away. There were tubes, there were fluids.

There was someone else in the room. He turned his head and even that hurt.

Marcus. Why wasn't he surprised? "Hey," he tried to call and it sounded all craggy and dry. "Wright. Wake up."

"I am awake," he said, his voice clear and even. He turned his head to look over at Connor, his eyes dark. "Been awake for a while." Through surgery. It had been an experience.

"What happened?" It pained him to admit that he wasn't sure. John watched Marcus's face.

"We blew up Skynet," he said, looking back at the ceiling, "and I remember Haurvatat." The moment he'd died, that's when he'd gone. And then when John had brought him back, he was looking up into the face of a man he'd known as a seventeen year old boy with eyes too old for the rest of him.

"You -- remember?" Really? John kind of stared at him from the bed. "Did we save Kyle?" Then they'd get back to the village. Someone else remembered the village. God.

"Kyle is fine," he said, looking hard at the ceiling and pointedly not at John. It had been a shock to come back. Leaving that place, the only real home he'd ever known, leaving Allison..."We saved him."

"You remember." It made it hard for John to breathe - not that whatever had happened to him made it any easier. "Everything?" Kyle was safe. Star, too, then. If only he could find Derek.

"Yeah, Connor, I remember." Marcus sat up, despite the various wires on his chest and the IV (did he need an IV?), and proceeded to detach himself. "I remember everything. You, your mom, Derek and Kyle."

John wanted to sit up, but it was pretty clear after a minute that that wasn't going to happen, so he just looked. "I can't find Derek," he admitted. "And my mom is dead." Marcus looked exactly the same as when John was seventeen. "I cut you open."

"You did," he said with a nod, "and now you've blown me up. Got to see all the parts." He slid off the bed and grabbed a shirt that was folded near by. Marcus tugged it over himself, the metal of his exposed hand glinting in the dim light of the bunker. "And look at you now. All important."

As if that mattered. It didn't. It never had. John had to force himself to look away. "So important I can't sit up. A little hand here?"

Marcus rounded his bed and eased John up, a hand on his arm and one in the small of his back. "You know, you don't even look that different..."

"Yeah?" Grunting at the effort, John smirked a little. "Is that good or bad?" He slowly, with help, slid his legs over the side and was already winded. The hell.

"It's just strange," he said. "You sure you wanna get up?" He was different in some ways. Bigger, obviously, no longer gawky and teenaged, but hard. Scarred. Bitten. But the eyes were the same, and Marcus caught himself looking just a little too long.

"Yeah, I'm sure. People are waiting." When he caught Marcus's eye, though, John stopped. "Do I have boogers?" The half-grin he offered, was reminiscent, perhaps.

"No, it's just I saw you yesterday and you were seventeen." Marcus jerked his head at him. "Are you getting up or what?"

"Yeah." John leaned heavily on Marcus and stood up. The gown nearly hit his knees and it took a minute for him to not feel like he was going to fall down. "Okay." After that moment. "I need to see what's going on." Which meant he needed to get dressed.

"Clothes are over there." He gestured, holding John's weight without trouble. He hadn't been wearing a gown. Just his pants, and now the shirt he'd pulled on. "And I'm thinking, if you can barely get up, your wife won't be interested in seeing you walking."

His wife. Kate. In some bizarre way, John had somehow in talking about the village, forgotten about Kate. He felt guilty about it, feeling the ring on his finger, too, and Marcus's arms around him. "Just help me get dressed, okay?"

Marcus didn't say anything, but propped John up against the bed before retrieving the clothes. He started with the pants, the usual black cargos common with the organized resistance, then reached back to untie the gown.

Suddenly they were close and for some reason, John's breath caught. It was exertion, of course. John let the gown shrug down his shoulders and with a hiss, he pulled out the tubes from his arms. "Fuck," he hissed out. Okay, so that hurt.

Marcus smirked a little. "You should get yourself some machinery. Wouldn't hurt so bad." What a joke. John Connor, a man-machine, like him. He'd gathered the shirt up so it was easy to get on the man's arms, stepping even closer to pull it up, then over his head.

"Tell my mother that," John laughed out. "She shocked herself once, with a defibrillator." If she could do that, he could get dressed, right? Marcus still smelled like a man, slightly tangy with dried sweat. John was flushed red when they finally got the shirt on.

It was strange seeing a man like John Connor blush, which Marcus could see easily, despite the dim light. "What do you expect to see by jumping out of bed after you've just had the shit kicked out of you by a T-800?"

"Uncle Bob." Insult to physical injury. "I have to get to work. The war didn't end, right?" He was dressed and it was time to move. Well, to get his boots and move. "Thanks." Marcus could back away now.

He did so, taking one long step back, his boots heavy on the ground. "Help me out first," he said evenly, "what's going to happen to me?" He was still a machine, at the end of the day.

If he remembered the village he could relax. John looked at the door and back at Marcus. "You'll be with me." Until he found Cameron. And even after that, perhaps. "You'll keep fighting. With me."

"What?" he asked, brow furrowed. "Stay with you? As what, like...your bodyguard?" He wasn't sure he was fond of that idea. "Like Cameron?"

"No." It was more than that. Of course. "You fight. With me." Bodyguard. Please. John even rolled his eyes. "If you don't want to? Fine. Go fight with the grunts. I'm keeping Kyle close, you can stay close, or go out on your own, I guess. Not my decision."

Even as he said that, he found himself, his chest tight, waiting for the answer.

"I stay with Kyle," he said, "and if he's with you, then so am I." He'd been tempted to add "I don't give a shit where you go" but that would have been a lie. Maybe Marcus hadn't done any of this for John, but he sure as hell wasn't an idiot, and he could see how important Connor was, even as a figurehead.

And the figurehead had some decisions to make.

With what they learned, they shifted the fight. Out of the open, into the tunnels, to hide better, to make strategic moves, to take over Serrano, to move forward in small increments.

The fights were fast and vicious. Bloody. Bedell was an asset as was Marcus, of course. John missed Derek every day.

He didn't even know what day it was when they went out and found HKs no matter where they turned. When he lost track of Kyle and Marcus and Bedell and was fighting on one side and couldn't stop to look around or they'd lose more than they already did. The smoke was so thick in the air that it was hard to breathe.

They didn't win. It showed on John's face and he stormed back into the power plant. "_Where are they?!_" He shouted. "Where are my men?!"

No, they didn't win. Marcus had split off with three other men, but he'd come back alone. He didn't know where Kyle was, and when he didn't know where Kyle was, he got cranky. In the end, it had meant hand to hand with an older model, which meant he would ache come morning, but he'd also the satisfaction of twisting the thing's head off. Sometimes having a Coltan endoskeleton had its upsides.

He ducked back into the plant, eyes watering from smoke and convinced he was the only one to make it out of the shit. They'd hit hard, and he could still hear the HKs overhead, looking.

But then Connor's voice cut through the sound of dying men and machines.

"Where are--" John turned when he saw Marcus, striding up. "Where's Kyle?!" They were nose to nose and everyone else was backing off; Connor pissed off was ... unpleasant. "Tell me you know where he is."

"I don't," he said coolly, even though the fact that Kyle wasn't with Connor was enough to make him want to snap necks, "I got pulled off. They split us all up."

"God_damn_it." John turned away, stalking back toward the door. He was going back out.

That was when Bedell and Kyle appeared, dirty, but unharmed. Jesus. When they were checked with, John turned, pointing at Marcus. "You. Come with me. Now." And he was heading for his bunker in the back.

Tension bled visibly from Marcus' shoulders when the young man appeared, but he didn't give him more than a nod before following Connor. "Blaming this one on me, huh?" he asked as they walked. The two men had a contentious relationship. Marcus wasn't good at taking orders. John was good at giving them. It didn't mesh well.

"You keep him safe!" How many times did they have to go over this?! It was basic. _Basic_. "You keep him safe. Is that hard for you to understand?! I can try to explain it again, if it is." They were nose to nose again, John unafraid.

"We got _separated_," Marcus replied through gritted teeth, kicking the door shut behind him. The slam echoed through the plant. "I didn't let him wander off. We were _forced_ apart."

"Then you _force your way back_." It's what John would do. It's _basic_. "There is one imperative for you. Keep Kyle alive. Everything hinges on that, but you know that. You _fucking know that_!" It'd be so easy to punch him in the face.

And break his fist.

"Right," he said with a sneer, "keep Kyle alive so that you won't blip out of existence because Christ knows we'd all be lost if John Connor disappeared." He hated that this man would imply he wouldn't throw himself on a mine for Kyle, wouldn't twist his _own_ head off. "Everything I've done since I woke up here, was for him." Marcus leaned in, "Not for you. For him. So fuck you, Connor."

"Fuck you, Marcus. You know what? Fuck you." John shoved him back, following, a step behind. "Get the fuck. Out. Of. My. Face." A push punctuating each word. "You. Insubordinate. Asshole."

At a certain point, once Marcus squared himself, he just couldn't be shoved. He caught John's hands, pushed them down to his sides. "Stop pushing me, Connor," he said, head cocked to the side, eyes gleaming once in a way that wasn't _quite_ human. "I'm not Cameron. You can rile me. I will fight back."

"Now you fight back." John didn't need to roll his eyes, it was evident in his tone, his own eyes narrowed to slits, jaw hard. "Great timing. You're the perfect fighting machine, aren't you, Wright? An hour too late."

"Fuck you, Connor!" He did shove him, hard. "I'd die for that kid and you fucking know it! But you don't like it." He paused, eyes going wide. "You're _jealous_."

"What?" Seriously, what? John couldn't have been caught more off-guard if Marcus had ripped his skin off and stood there just as an endoskeleton. He staggered back a few steps and then righted himself. "... what?"

"You're jealous!" he barked, "that I would do anything for him, maybe everything, but not for you. You're so used to being Jesus Fucking Christ, the reason everyone keeps fighting, but you _aren't_ why I'm fighting, Connor. Kyle is."

For a second, John's face was blank. And then - then - he just started to laugh. Seriously laugh.

It was so fucking _absurd_. "Yeah. Okay, Wright. Whatever."

"Then what is it, John?" he asked, still leaning in, "why is it I get the shit every time the kid is out of your sight for two seconds? Why is it? Unless it's me you're jealous of." He sneered sharply. "Can't stand that your own father is closer to a machine than he is to you, huh?"

"He's -- you're --" John was speechless. What the fuck? It's _basic_. Keep Kyle safe. That was all. That was _everything_. He stepped back into Marcus's space and shook his head very slowly. "I'm going to say this to you one more time. Maybe then it'll sink in. I didn't expect you to be so slow, Wright. Keep. Kyle. Safe. Get it?"

"I do!" he shouted, furious, "I do you arrogant asshole! I do, but it isn't good enough for you!"

"BECAUSE YOU FAILED!" John had a fistful of Marcus's uniform in his hand and for some reason, he wasn't pulling or pushing, just holding on so tightly his knuckles were white.

"I. Didn't." The words were hissed. "It happens, Connor. We're at war and we get separated. You _can't_ blame me for that." His hands curled in John's jacket, giving him a solid shake. "What is this about!?"

Was John speaking fucking _French_?! Did Marcus have a sudden problem understanding English? "I _do_ blame you for that!"

Oh, Christ.

When John's mouth crashed against Marcus's, nearly hard enough to draw blood, he was just as surprised as the other man might've been.

But Marcus was more surprised that he _wasn't_ surprised. His arm went around John's shoulders, hand pressed hard to the back of his head as he returned the kiss. It was an angry embrace, but it was still a kiss, hot and needy and he was clutching at the man.

They were both dirty. Filthy. Marcus tasted of smoke and dirt and for some reason, it made John hold tighter to him, one hand still in his jacket, the other cupping his head and he was hard. So hard it made his knees weak.

Marcus broke the kiss with a rough gasp, and in a moment, he'd swung at John, catching him across the jaw. Not because he didn't want it, or wasn't just as aroused. It wasn't that he didn't want to push John into the room he shared with Kate and fuck his brains out. But he was still pissed.

"You're such an asshole. Fuck." John held his jaw, moving it, making sure the fucking thing wasn't _broken_, and he stared back at Marcus, eyes a cloudy green. "Get out of my bunker."

Marcus just shook his head once and had John in another fierce kiss. The anger was bleeding out of him, leaving him tight with desire. His tongue pushed into the other man's mouth, tasting the burn of gun powder and whatever it was John had eaten for breakfast that morning.

Oh, Christ. This was how it was going to be? Somehow John Connor was ... okay with that. More than okay. But they didn't have much time. He reached down between them, reaching for him, wanting to feel.

_What about other stuff?_

I can ... still have sex.

Oh.

Even back in that village, John had been curious.

Marcus gave a soft grunt, breaking the kiss to press his forehead to John's temple, eyes squeezed shut and hands working in the cloth of his shirt. "_Fuck_."

"Not now." John didn't need to say her name. They both knew. Kate could appear anytime. Kate, who was pregnant, due any day. He didn't try to shove Marcus away, stepping back instead. And he said it again, though there was no anger behind his words. "Get out of my bunker."

Marcus watched him for a long minute, those blue eyes doing the tracking that Kyle had told him to knock off more than once _because it's creepy, man_. But he turned on his heel and strode out of the bunker without a word, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

+++++

There was a big victory outside of Sacramento. Big. Skynet bombed out. It tasted sweet. The rest of the troops were headed back to base, but John was staying behind to do some more recon; there were always things to be learned. Kyle had stayed back. Bedell was on his way back. Marcus stayed with John. He was _useful_.

The baby was born, a girl with Kate's eyes.

John wasn't thinking of them. He was looking over the blueprints. What might he have missed?

"Congratulations." Marcus voice was as gruff as ever. His face was stained with soot and blood, and the M16 was slung across his back. "I was thinking," he said, pushing away from the fallen beam he was leaning against, "there might be something inside for this." He held up his hand, gloved, but underneath, exposed Coltan. They hadn't been able to find the right technology to trigger the regeneration of muscle and skin. It made Marcus miss Data.

That got John to look up, at Marcus's hand, at his face. "You want something?"

If Marcus remembered the village, he knew what John's reaction would be. It didn't change, hadn't changed in twenty years.

He gestured for Marcus to come closer, to look at the blueprints too. Where?

He crossed the debris scattered floor and searched for a second, before pointing to the far east section of the compound. "Here," he said, gloved finger pressed to the blueprints. "There were access tunnels leading to a lab that was far enough away it could have been missed by the explosion." Leaned over the blueprint like this and their heads were close, conspirators.

When John turned his head, he could smell the salt on Marcus's skin. And the blood. "You want to go, we go now." We. They would go together.

He stepped back and reached up to wipe a spot of blood off his forehead. There was a bullet in his arm, lodged in the Coltan, and the splatter had hit his face. "Then we go now."

They were both covered in filth and there would be no showers. Shouldering his own rifle, guns in his belt and extra ammunition, John rolled up the blueprints and held them. With a nod, he headed for the far east section.

The area had been swept, but that didn't mean it was safe. It was dark and hot, steam still coming from the machinery as they made their way through.

The rifle was in his hands, but Marcus was at ease. Ears were open, eyes were open. Whatever machines that were left after the blast had left to regroup elsewhere. "How's the baby."

For some reason, the question caught John off-guard. "Good. Eating." There had been some time when the baby wouldn't latch; there was no milk for bottles. It had been scary. But then she did. "Eight pounds, seven ounces." Through what looked like a assembly plant, wide open and oddly silent. It reminded John of Uncle Bob. Nothing left behind. The baby's name was Sarah. He and Kate had fought about that.

They fought a lot these days.

"And how's Kate." Because everyone could hear them fight. And John and Marcus hadn't talked about the kiss the day Kyle got separated. In fact, they barely talked at all anymore. The basics. Kyle had commented on the fact that Marcus and John didn't fight like they used to. They'd gone quiet.

Slanting Marcus a look, John just said, "fine." He pointed to the right. The blueprints said that way. "Blair?" Weren't they polite.

"She's the same," he said, "but I think the mystery is starting to wear off." She'd been fascinated by the machine in him, attracted to it, but it was starting to get to her that he couldn't take the glove off when they fucked. He'd said he didn't mind, but she'd blanched at the idea of cold metal on bare skin.

John glanced at his hand again. He should express sympathy. He couldn't.

The assembly plant gave way to hallways, offices. At the end of the third hallway was the lab, the door closed tight. Another look to Marcus; the door might be rigged. Approach with care.

Marcus shouldered the rifle again, gave John a nod, and hit the door hard with his bulk twice before it swung open. A lab. Tech, cultures in petri dishes. Abandoned. "Look," he said slowly as he stepped inside and started pacing through the lab tables, "I was thinking of asking you for a transfer."

He brought it up at this moment? John was going through the drawers, for files, for anything, gesturing for Marcus to go to the cold storage. "Are you unhappy, Wright?"

"You're unapproachable, Connor," he said, "I can't talk to you anymore. You know it."

Stopping, John looked up at over at him, one eyebrow arching. "What do you want to talk about?" A heart-to-heart in the middle of a Skynet facility. It seemed fitting.

It was the only time they were ever alone, is when they went on these things, these missions that John created for himself that only Marcus could afford to join him on, or, like in this case, when Marcus created them, because he needed to talk to the man. "The fact that two months ago we were about to fuck in your quarters, but we haven't talked about it since."

Oh, that.

Something crossed over John's face and he closed the drawer he was rifling through quietly, and stood upright. There was no one here. No one to walk in. No one to find them. Any marks would be chalked up to battle scars.

Yes, John had thought about that.

He thought about a lot of things. _John Connor never forgets_ Cameron had said, once.

Coming around the cabinet, John moved toward Marcus, into his personal space. "What do you want to talk about?"

Marcus went still for a second before reaching up, cupping the back of John's head in one large hand and covering Connor's mouth with his. The kiss was less frantic than the one two months ago, but there was still the same biting taste.

_This isn't talking_, John could say, the corners of his mouth even curling up some into the kiss. He cupped Marcus's head too, short cropped hair between his fingers. Without looking, he found Marcus's gloved hand and pulled the glove away, letting it fall to the floor. Then he kissed Marcus harder, feeling stubble not his own scraping him.

The exposed hand curled in the back of John's jacket and they were pressed chest to chest. The hand at the back of his head stroked, rather than clutched, and he was tugging at John's lips. This wasn't something he'd ever imagined would happen. He was straight, always had been, had never felt anything for another man, certainly not like this. But he wanted Connor badly, wanted to see what his skin felt like, what his mouth felt like, how he looked when someone was making him come. The thought was enough to pull a possessive growl from deep in his chest, and then he was pushing John back against the nearest counter, knocking a test tube rack to the floor with a crash.

That smirk was back. Maybe it was the opposite for John. Aside from Cameron, really, and Kate (to a lesser degree), he wasn't. Straight. He didn't say 'careful,' instead pushing at Marcus's jacket, pulling at his shirt. "I cut you open," he said instead. "I wanted you, then."

That earned him a short moan, but Marcus laughed, the sound thick with lust. "Too bad you were seventeen." Marcus flicked the safety one handed on the M16, slid the strap off his shoulder and both the rifle and his jacket hit the floor. "I don't do jail bait." Except that Connor was older than him now.

Older, but some things didn't change. John could feel the metal in his back and it just added to how hard he was. He pulled off Marcus's shirt. There were some small wounds from the fight and there was metal there, too. He touched it, and what he felt, he knew, wasn't right. But he didn't care, kissing Marcus again, hands roaming, inventorying, touching.

His arm was still weeping blood, but he didn't feel the sting of the bullet. One hand was still holding John's mouth to his, but the other slipped up under his shirt in turn, pushing it up as it roamed further. "I should have known," he said when he broke the kiss to get the cloth out of his way, continuing when they were both standing shirtless in a half bombed out lab, the lights dim and the wrong color for human eyes. Marcus, of course, could see fine. "I should have known the metal turned you on."

There was no point in answering that. Marcus's metal hand was cold against his skin and John's mouth was already kiss-swollen, sensitive. He reached between them for Marcus's belt, flipping it open, pulling at the fly of his pants again, but this time there would be no one to stop them. The setting seemed appropriate.

What he felt in his hand, then, wasn't metal though, but warm, hard flesh that he wrapped his hand around and pulled. "You still want that transfer?" He asked, right before sucked a mark into the skin over Marcus's collarbone.

"Not as this moment, no," he said, his grip tightening when John's hand found his cock. "Just a ploy, anyway," he said, breath coming just a little quicker, "to get this started again." He could never leave Kyle. Not for anything.

Yeah, John knew that. (And maybe he was jealous of such dedication to Kyle. Kyle, who couldn't know. Maybe.) He stroked again. Angling his chin up, he whispered right into Marcus's ear. "What do you want?"

"I want to fuck you," he said, the metal hand shifting restlessly against John's cropped hair. "I want to bend you over this desk and fuck your ass."

The heat that shifted through John's body was enough to leave him winded. He leaned back. Insubordinate; he smirked. He didn't care. He never did care. As he looked into Marcus's eyes in the gloom, he let go of Marcus's cock and reached for his own belt instead, pulling it open, and getting his fly open, then, pushing his pants and boxers down. They both had boots on; pants weren't coming off, just down. And he turned around, bending over the desk.

Marcus could kill him now, easily.

But then he wouldn't get to fuck him, would he. He smoothed his good hand up John's back, the other on one muscled ass cheek. The hand slid further up until he could latch onto the back of John's neck. Then, "spit." He held his hand in front of Connor's face, stepping close enough so that his cock was pressed to the crease of his ass, sliding just a little against the smooth skin.

Marcus didn't have saliva? This was going to hurt. Two thoughts right in a row. John spat, smirking, still, then he turned to look over his shoulder at the other man. Part of him was tempted to ask for the metal. But then better sense prevailed; he stayed silent.

He did, but he liked it better this way. He stroked himself with the slick hand before spitting in his palm himself and slicking John's entrance as well. He worked those fingers in, the metal spreading him, and they twisted, bent. Marcus' hips were still rocking slightly, sliding against Connor's ass as he worked the man loose. There was a hum of computers in the room still. Some separate power source from the transformers they blew up to take the place out, but both men were quiet except for the sound of breathing.

Both hands gripping the table edge, John had his eyes screwed tight and he was totally and completely focused on the -- the _metal_ in his body. It was cold; it never got warm. When it hit those nerve endings inside him, he bucked, hissing. His cock was impossibly hard, jerking against his thigh. John Connor was _turned on_, possibly more than he'd ever been ever in his life.

"God, Connor," Marcus said roughly, "you really do like it, don't you." He bent his fingers again, pulsing them against the soft swell deep inside the other man. "Don't hold those moans back for my sake." No one to hear them. They could be as loud as they wanted.

It wasn't in John to be loud. He'd never been loud. Maybe it was the village, having to be quiet when Derek fucked him and Cameron was next door or maybe it was always keeping secrets. John wasn't loud. He wanted to hate Marcus for being a prick. He wanted to beg for more. He kept silent, but for a groan when that Coltan hit his prostate again and he jerked, back arching.

Marcus removed the hand and pushed forward, leaning down over the man and bracing that metal hand on the lab bench next to his head. It only took one strong thrust of his hips and he was hilt deep, the air leaving him as he felt muscle mold around him, felt John's body clench. Metal, fucking John Connor. How perfect.

Ironic, one could argue.

John _did_ cry out when Marcus fucked into him. Too much, too tight, too hard. "Oh, you _fucking_ asshole." God. It took a second before he could even catch his breath, and when he did, he pushed back against Marcus's hips. _Move_!

"Likes the metal," he murmured in John's ear as his hips began to piston into him, hitting him hard each time, "and likes it rough. We've got a bright future, Connor."

There was no way John could respond to that, verbally. He braced himself on the table, feet far apart, toes curled inside his boots. It was a good guess on Marcus's part, the rough thing. Lucky guess. After a minute, he let go with one hand to fist over his cock, face contorted with the vicious pleasure of it.

"Fuck you feel fucking incredible." Marcus stayed close, enjoying this in a way he hadn't thought. Initially, fucking John might have been about power, about proving how much bigger and stronger he was, but in the end John was a warm body. Marcus _liked_ John. Respected him, even. And now he'd pressed his forehead to the back of his neck, his hands softening on the man's hips, pumping into him smoothly.

The change of rhythm, of pressure, coaxed a groan from John as he reached back with his free hand, fingers running along skin that was warm. Fuck, it'd been ... so long, since he'd done this. Twenty years. He'd nearly forgotten how _good_ it was. His cheek was against the table, eyes still closed. "Yes," he whispered. Oh, God, yes.

He kissed over the top of his spine, the back of his shoulders. His fingers curled against John's hip, flesh against flesh, and the other hand curled against the table, metal on metal. He was panting as he moved, the sound soft and rhythmic, and he angled up, trying to brush his prostate on each thrust. "Fuck...John..." his voice equally soft, too caught up in this to be surprised at how gentle they were being.

When he found the right angle, the sounds John made got higher, tighter, and he wasn't a soldier in this moment, he was a man, intimately linked with another man. This, no matter the where, was right. "Christ, Marcus," he groaned out, hand moving on himself more tightly. "Oh... Christ."

Marcus gripped the back of his head, turning it, lifting him slightly off the lab bench so he could kiss him. John's mouth was hot, lips pink and swollen from previous kisses. Marcus wanted the tangle of tongues, the wet slide and the bite of teeth. Each push of his hips coiled the heat in his groin tighter and tighter and he was still panting, even as his kissed John.

The angle was bad, John's neck already ached, but he held on, kissed Marcus back, just as wanting. Something to make this matter, to cement it. Marcus was the perfect mix. Metal and very real, very human, man whose control was slipping too. A few more pulls at his cock, right at that sensitive part right under the head, and John came, his vision behind his eyes going white as he shuddered, body clenching around the invasion.

"Nnn_yes_..." Marcus let his mouth go, John's body straining underneath him. He was clenching in pulses around Marcus' cock as he came, muscle spasming, and it triggered his own orgasm. He spilled himself deep, keeping himself pressed in with his hips flush with John's ass. It felt _too_ good. He gasped as the tension left his body, only just managing to catch himself before he collapsed on top of Connor completely.

It was back to that silence, the hum of machinery and two men breathing for a long time. When John finally did push Marcus off, out of him, it wasn't far. Just enough so he could turn around, so they could look at each other face to face, sated, with their pants around their ankles. Another kiss then, slowly, but just as deep. Just like when he was seventeen, John licked over his lower lip when they separated. "You find what you were looking for? Wright?" He asked.

"Yeah," he said with a nod, "even if I don't remember why we came in the first place..." his arm had settled around John's waist, not wanting him to go far.

Taking Marcus's exposed hand, John held it in his between them. "We might be able to fix this, if you want. And we need to get the bullet out." The lab was good place to do that. The latter definitely, the former, only if Marcus wanted.

"I don't know," he said, looking the hand over, "I might kind of like it." He met the other man's eyes. "It's a good reminder."

The corner of his mouth turned up as John felt that wave of heat rush through him. "We'll get the bullet out, then. Head back." Back to base. Back to Kate (and Blair). He kissed Marcus again. A promise.

Marcus didn't let him pull away from the kiss so quickly. He smiled, a rare expression, against his mouth. This was the first time since Allison that Marcus had actually felt comfortable with another person like this. Talking to Kyle was one thing, and he'd told the boy everything. But he wasn't sleeping with Kyle, and it was different. Blair...he couldn't tell Blair much.

It was like John was seventeen again and Marcus was ... however old Marcus was and always would be. It was, except for the setting, like they were back in the village, and John felt a pang in his chest. Things would be be explained. Worked out. Somehow. They had to be.

In another minute, he pulled away a bit more, pulling his pants up to hunt for some tweezers. He got Marcus to sit and got a stool, pulling his wounded arm up so he could fish the bullet out. Deja vu, all over again. He smiled.

"It's strange," Marcus said, quietly, sitting once he'd got his pants up again, not bothering to do them up. "I remember it all perfectly. It's like it never happened, but it's all..." he reached up and tapped his temple, "recorded. Like video."

"For a long time, I didn't remember, but I would have these _dreams_," John answered, bent low, peering into the wound before dipping the tweezers in. "Then one day, it was like it was all just ... back." A glance up at Marcus. "I keep waiting to find Derek. He has to be here, somewhere."

Marcus was quiet for a long time. "I'm sorry." He tensed at the tweezers, but his pain threshold went up each time he got wounded. It worried him sometimes, that he barely felt these things anymore. "You're going to have to pry it out. It got lodged in the Coltan."

Tweezers weren't going to cut it. Pliers were what was needed. Those were in a drawer, too, and John reached in again, getting the round and giving Marcus an apologetic look before _pulling_. And just like twenty years before, he moaned as well, as the metal casing came free and he held it up. "What're you sorry for?" There was a cloudiness to his eyes that took a moment to clear.

Marcus was watching him intently. "You've lost more family," he said, "and...I'm sorry I didn't keep a better eye on Kyle that night. I should have been more careful."

"Everybody dies for me." John's smirk was wry, dark. "I know how Bedell dies, in one universe already. But you." The bullet lands on the metal table with a clatter as he meets Marcus's eyes again. "Except you. You... might not die."

"Oh, trust me Connor," he said, his hand coming up to cradle his head again. "If I die, it's not going to be for you."

There is an odd kind of peace that came with that statement. John leaned in and pressed his mouth to Marcus's again and this time, he could taste something of himself on the other man's tongue.

"Come on," Marcus said once the kiss broke again, "we should get back."

With a nod, John stood. They dressed again, arming their weapons. There were no machines to be found on their way out. There wasn't anything. The plant was dead.

++++++

Marcus wasn't quite sure how he'd gotten here. Here, of course, was in a remote bunker in Northern California, curled in a pile of old blankets and pillows with John Connor, both in various states of undress. The sweat on his body was cooling quickly, sending a chill over him, and he dragged the other man just a little bit closer. They were far from headquarters, and even though Star and Kyle were sleeping just a few rooms down, Marcus figured they had plenty of time for this, quiet companionship, the hard muscle of Connor's body half draped over his.

Any kind of time was taken, utilized, savored. There was an ache in John's body and he had Marcus's exposed hand, looking at it (truthfully, fondling it), running the metal along his fingers. It was rare he felt this kind of peace. He was in no hurry to move. They were here one or two more days before going back to base. Small victories. A step forward for every step back. Nevermind that. Peace. His palm, his fingers were pressed flat to the Coltan hand. They were nearly the same size.

"What is it?" Marcus asked, reluctant to break the silence, but confident that it was an all right question to ask, "about it that's so fascinating to you?"

"I don't know." It was an honest answer, too, unguarded, John's voice soft, not barking orders. "It shouldn't be there. This should be bone. But it's not. It's almost indestructible and ... " He bent one of Marcus's fingers. "It's genius. Put skin over it, and no one knows." Turning, he looked into Marcus's face. "It's ... perfect."

_It's cold. That's good, right?_

That's perfect.

"Too bad it wants to kill you," Marcus said quietly, curling the hand into a fist. "Not this specifically, but in general." Marcus cocked his head to the side, looking vaguely concerned, but leaned in to kiss him, noses brushing, tugging at his lower lip.

"In general, yeah." And John grinned. This was simply a fact of John's life. The sun rose, and set (somewhere) and machines wanted John Connor dead. He closed his eyes into the kiss, letting himself get lost there, just for the moment. Savoring.

There was the screech of a metal door being pushed open and they moved, fast, instinctive like always, and even naked but for the unbuttoned shirt around his shoulders, he pointed his gun.

"You're in my territory," came the voice and in walked Derek Reese.

John's gun wavered.

"Jesus Christ." Marcus, whose pants were half on, rolled to his feet, putting himself in front of John, as he usually did. See, Marcus could take bullets. John Connor couldn't. "Reese." They'd both begun to think that Derek didn't exist in this world. Kyle never talked about him, and Marcus was afraid to ask, not wanting to cause the kid more pain.

"Yeah?" Derek's eyes moved between them both. "I don't know you."

Jesus Christ, he was mostly naked, but John seemed unable to move. "John. Connor. Derek?"

"Good for you, you know my name. Connor, huh? I've heard of you." Derek's eyes moved to the other. "And you?"

"Wright," he said, keeping his eyes on the newcomer, "Marcus Wright. What the hell do you mean, in your territory. Didn't know there were boundaries."

"I'm responsible for this area, from I-10 to Sacramento and you're here. Any missions should've been run by me and you didn't run them by me. But you succeeded, I see. So." Derek's eyes flicked down, and back up. "We can talk. When you're dressed."

"Kyle." John said, still staring. "Kyle is with us."

Nearly out the door, Derek turned back around. "... Kyle. Is with you."

John nodded.

"Get dressed. I'll be outside."

Marcus turned when Derek disappeared, the shock clear in his eyes while the rest of his face remained impassive. "What do you wanna do?" he asked quietly.

"Maybe it's a trap." John had to consider this. "It might be a machine." On the other side of the door. A trap. Derek! Who didn't know who John was but for his name. Christ. He found his pants, got dressed, shouldered his gun before he looked at Marcus again. "Ready?"

Marcus hefted his own rifle once he was dressed, the glove back in place. "I'm going first, Connor." As usual, even though Marcus often had to remind him. He flicked the safety off the M16, shook his head clear, and pushed out into the hall.

About twenty rifles were trained on them. John recognized almost all of them as the kind of rifles that could tear Marcus's head off. Just like Derek had taught him. It was his turn to step in front. "I am John Connor. We are here to fight Skynet."

"Of course you are. With a machine." Naked. Derek's face said that, if he didn't verbalize it. "John Connor fights against machines, not with them."

"We have Kyle. He can vouch for us, if you don't believe us." John's voice was as even as he could make it. If Derek didn't know him? Didn't believe _him_? Maybe he'd believe Kyle. His chest felt too tight.

"This gun?" Derek nodded toward one of the rifles pointed at Marcus specifically. "Will shear your head from your body. If you have Kyle? Get him."

John turned, meeting Marcus's gaze in an instant. _Don't move._ He put his own guns down and his hands up, and he went to get Kyle.

"Kind of a show off," Marcus said easily as he handed his M16 over, "aren't you." He didn't take his eyes from Derek, tracking. Always tracking. Recording.

"Pragmatic. I like my head where it is." Derek kicks the rifle away. He barely blinked.

"I'm not about to go twisting heads off," Marcus assured him with a wry smile, "not in my spare time, anyway."

"Derek?" Kyle's voice rang down the hallway and the young man came jogging toward them, pushing his way through the circle of men around Marcus. He placed himself in front of the ex-con, hands up and eyes worried. "Derek..."

Marcus took a step back, head ducked. If they really were brothers, than this was a reunion that was a long time coming. He glanced up at John, brow furrowed.

"Kyle." For a moment, everyone saw the mask slip from Derek's face. He gave Marcus one more glance and then focused on Kyle, searching the boy's face. "You know this thing?"

"He's not a thing, Derek, he's a man. He's saved my life. He got me out of Skynet HQ. He protects John Connor." Marcus was still watching John. "Trust me Derek. C'mon." Kyle was searching his brother's face, all at once ecstatic and terrified. Down the hall, Star was standing behind John, looking alarmed at the number of people pointing guns at Marcus. "C'mon, Derek," he said again, "it's me."

John reached back for Star, so she could take his hand as Derek looked at Kyle unblinking.

"I lost you. In Topanga Canyon. I came back but you were gone." His jaw worked. "What did I teach you when we were kids." Never trust. Test. Always.

"Baseball, Derek, don't be an asshole." Kyle stepped forward and put his hands on Derek's shoulders. "I'm sorry. I had to move. They were coming hard and...by the time I could afford to wait around there were a hundred miles between us." Kyle gave him a shake. "Derek. That's John Connor over there. This is Marcus Wright."

"And John Connor saved a lot of your men's lives today," Marcus pointed out, "in case you'd forgotten in the rush of the threatening me." Kyle sent him a look and Marcus shrugged.

Another moment passed, another icy look at Marcus and Derek stepped closer still, his hands coming up to Kyle's shoulders. "Fuck, I thought I'd lost you." And with that, the Reese boys were reunited. John was blinking, hard, jaw firm, as Derek hugged Kyle, tight.

After a few minutes, the troops were dismissed and John found himself at a table with Derek, Kyle, Marcus and Star, boiled water in front of them and something Derek was calling cowboys breakfast. Stale breakfast cereal in baby food.

It was the most disgusting thing he'd ever tasted in his life. And that was saying a lot.

"You took them out here." Derek pointed to the map. "We took them out here. That leaves this area." He circled his finger.

"We can surround them," John answered, looking at the map. "If there are buildings there, we move, set up points to attack, and go."

Marcus was distracted, watching the two of them work. There was something like anxiety building in his gut, and he didn't know why. But it was John, and the way he watched the elder Reese, still John Connor, but hanging on Derek's every word. He would let them plan, let them decide. It had never been his strong point. He hadn't touched the food either, which wasn't unusual for him. But he could feel Star and Kyle watching him carefully. "Couldn't be that many left," was all he added, "the compound we took out was small."

"Of course they're small," Derek didn't bother looking at Marcus. "We've been doing our job." Back to the map. "Here and here are buildings. Here and here. Here." Each was marked with an 'x.' "Move into position tonight?"

Here, John was older than Derek. Time was folding into itself. This is when they meet, then. His fortieth birthday was coming. Derek was there for that, he told John. After they sent Kyle back. His own stomach felt heavy. Kyle already had the picture (and didn't John feel like shit doing that). "Tonight," he agreed. He needed to get Derek alone. See if he remembered anything. Anything at all.

He didn't and he got tired of John asking about someplace called Haurvatat. Sir.

John was crouched in the bombed out building, watching for HKs and he could feel Marcus next to him. "Say whatever it is you're going to say," he told him. "You're ... hovering."

"What happened between you two in the village," Marcus asked without looking at him.

There was a beat before John answered and when he did, it was quiet, almost defeated. Maybe he sounded a little like he was seventeen again. "We were lovers." He looked over at Marcus's profile. It wouldn't take much to put two and two together.

"Your...uncle," he said slowly, still looking out at the sky, everything back lit by the compound that was still burning. Everything was burning these days, it seemed. The entire world was on fire. "But he doesn't remember the village."

"No, he doesn't." And he might or might not later. "Shit." Whatever he was going to say was set aside. The battle was on.

Six hours later had John hissing at Marcus, "easy!" No matter how often he did it, getting stitches without anesthetic hurt like a bitch. "Are you judging me now?"

"For fucking your uncle?" he asked as he sewed up the gash in Connor's leg. "Maybe a little." Marcus paused in the stitching and put his hands down, looking up at Connor. "But I get it. Even if it's..." he shook his head and went back to work. And maybe he was a little jealous, but that was beside the point. Marcus shrugged. "It's none of my business."

"For the record, he fucked me. _Ouch_." John gritted his teeth. "It doesn't matter now, does it?"

Marcus tied the thread off and wiped the needle on his pants before tucking it away again. "And if he shows up one day, and does remember, like I did. What then, Connor?" He sat back on his heels, crouched in front of the other man, looking up at him.

"I have to send him back," John said by way of answer. "If he remembers," if, "then it might be when he's sent back." Even as they fought, there were techs back at base trying to beat Skynet to the punch the technology for time travel. They might even be able to keep from sending Kyle back, though John doubted it.

"But if he remembers," he said, "and he's still here. Now." The truth was, Marcus didn't really want him to answer that, because he was fairly certain he knew what the reality was, even if he didn't think John would answer honestly. "Then what?" Because despite the fact that they never talked about it, they were fucking. A lot. Like bunnies, some people would say. Except that no one knew.

No one knew and no one would know. That much had never changed. John was used to it, even if Kate and he were living together for appearance sake and nothing else. He watched Marcus's face. "I guess I'll deal with that, then." No we, then. Just I.

"What the hell does that mean?" he asked, finally shifting to look at him.

"What would you do, Wright?" John all but rolled his eyes. "This is my issue, not yours."

Marcus pushed to his feet and grabbed a rag to wipe his hands clean on the blood. "Fine. You'll deal with it, then. Forget I said anything."

"Christ. What -- Marcus, wait." It wasn't like John was going to be chasing after him. "What do you want me to say? He doesn't remember. There's no point in getting ... in ... in being a kid about this."

"Being a kid?" Marcus looked a bit incredulous, but shook his head, holding a hand up before turning away. "Forget about it Connor. Get some rest." They were leaving at the crack of dawn tomorrow morning, as soon as it was light enough to see. Machines had the advantage at night, but in the sunlight, things were fairly even. Not that it mattered to Marcus. He could see fine in the dark.

"I was talking about me!" John called after him and flopped to his back. Fuck it. Fuck it all. His leg was throbbing and he put his arm over his eyes.

+++++++

Kyle was gone and there was nothing Marcus could do about it. It wasn't that he was pissed that Connor had sent him back, more that he was pissed that he'd sent him back when there wasn't really a way for him to get home. Not yet, anyway. They were still working on it, but this mission was urgent. Kyle had insisted. Marcus had done his best to convince the kid to refuse, but he was older now, not so easy to influence. The night he'd gone, Marcus hadn't left his quarters. He wouldn't have been able to look John in the face. They hadn't done much talking, or much anything, since finding Derek up North and reuniting the two brothers. Marcus had actually thought about seeking Derek out. The man didn't like him at all, but Kyle's trust had meant that Derek at least accepted the fact that Marcus was solidly on their side.

He left his room with his expression still storm cloud dark. People passing the other way in the tunnel stepped aside and watched him pass as he made his way to Derek's quarters, but a conversation between two young soldiers caught his ear.

"...never coming back and he knows it," one was saying to his friend. The friend nodded.

"You heard he keeps bothering the technicians, asking when Reese will be able to come back? Reese is good as dead."

They, clearly, had forgotten that Marcus' hearing was better than most. The last word had barely gotten out of the kid's mouth before Marcus had him on the ground, knee in his stomach and fist connecting with his face. It wasn't something he was prone to so much anymore, violent outbursts. Or at least, not on humans, but every so often he made it very obvious why he'd been locked up on death row.

People swarmed in immediately, pulling at him, to little avail. John was fetched, pushing through, just as Derek did. They both yanked at Marcus, amid all the shouting. "Stop it!" John shouted right in his ear. "Stop it!"

It wasn't working. Of course it wasn't working. Marcus was too strong. It took a rifle butt to the back of his skull. John pushed Derek away. This wasn't his issue. The whole time, from the corner, Star watched with dark, sad eyes.

When Marcus woke up, he was chained to a chair again. John was sitting in the only other furniture in the room, a straight back chair, slouched low, ankles crossed. He was asleep.

He started and the chains rattled, alarming him even more. He shot upright and his head spun. Marcus slumped back against the chair and closed his eyes. He could feel the blood caking at the back of his head. The glove was gone and he wasn't quite sure how that could have happened without some one deliberately taking it off, as if to prove a point.

When the chains rattled, John awoke with a start, rubbing over his face before he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He just looked at Marcus. "What was that all about? Making everyone distrust you?"

"I got angry," he said distractedly, looking down at the iron cuffs around his wrists. "Would have done the same without the metal."

"And been in the same situation." To John, Marcus being a machine was a kink. It wasn't who Marcus was. (And yes, he knew that was weird.) "What got you mad?"

"Fucking kid," he said snarling and tugging on the chains, "talking about Kyle like he was dead, like he was never coming back. Are you just going to sit there and leave me like this?"

They were locked in, by John's orders. After a moment, he walked over, behind Marcus and unlocked the chain. The irony didn't escape him. Here they were, back like this. He came back around, pulling his chair around and straddled it backward. "Kyle can't come back, Marcus."

Marcus rubbed at his wrists. "Yet, Connor. It's the only reason I didn't break your neck for doing it. They'll figure out a way."

Looking down, John didn't speak. Marcus was quick; he didn't need to say anything.

When John remained silent, Marcus looked up at him. "Connor." His stomach was beginning to twist unpleasantly. "Connor!"

Another moment, and John got up, pounded on the door and asked for something. He was handed a tape recorder and the door was locked back as he came back. He sat again, and hit "play."

_What should I tell you about your father...?_

Over the voice, the voice of one Sarah Connor, John said, "Kyle Reese is sent back to 1984 to protect Sarah Connor from a T-800. They have one night together, then Kyle dies, defending my mother before the Terminator is destroyed." His eyes were dark, unfathomably sad as he looked over at Marcus. "Everyone dies for me."

Marcus had gone still, watching the old tape player. John's voice sounded faint, as though coming from very, very far away. Sarah's voice was an eerie chorus in the dank room. Marcus blinked. "You knew this," he said stiffly, "and you still sent him back?"

"You said it yourself, Wright. If I don't, I 'blip out of existence.' It has to be done. I didn't have a choice." John clicks off the recorder and sets it aside, his head down.

"You don't have a choice?" he asked, voice rising steadily, "you don't have a choice? Everyone dies for you, Connor, and you think you don't have a choice?" He lunged forward and caught the other man by the shoulders, shaking him. "You fucking murdered him! You murdered him!"

"Marcus, stop it." John's voice was firm. Honestly, he deserved this. "Stop it, Marcus! What would you have me do?! What should I have done, huh, Marcus?! My mother dies, I'm never born, what then, Marcus?! WHAT THEN?!" His voice was hoarse as he shouted back. "They'll come in here and hit you again, if you don't get yourself under control!"

Marcus' eyes were gleaming, but he was too angry to cry. "I'd take it," he said hoarsely, "if it meant keeping him and losing you. You fucking bastard." But he was clinging to John now, not shaking or grabbing, and he knew that if he thought about it too closely, he would collapse. "You fucking bastard, I promised him. I promised him."

"He wanted to go," John said, but it was a whisper. He'd been manipulating the boy for months now and he hated it. Hated it. His arms came around Marcus's neck and he pulled him as close as he could. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."

It was on the second sorry that Marcus' knees gave out and he sank to the floor, bringing John with him. He couldn't speak. If he did, he'd sob, and he didn't know what actually crying would open up in him, he didn't know how he would ever be able to stop.

"Marcus, I'm sorry." John had his arms around Marcus's shoulders and he shifted to where his head was on his shoulder and he kissed the bare skin of his neck. "I'm sorry," he whispered over and over again, his own eyes red-rimmed and cloudy.

"He can't be dead," he moaned, sinking lower, as though he just didn't have any strength left. "He can't be dead." His fingers went slack in the back of John's shirt and the slid down his back slowly, the will to move bleeding out of him. "I let him down. I promised I wouldn't let anything happen. I promised."

So did John. So did Derek. Marcus didn't break his promise, John did. Marcus didn't kill Kyle, the Terminator did. John put him there to be killed, of course. John still held on, his arms shaking with the effort of the tight embrace. "You know you didn't. _You_ didn't."

"No," he said quieter, sinking down and pulling away until he was bent forward, forehead to the dirty cement floor. "NO!" His fist came down hard and a crack ran quickly to the corner of the room. In the silence that followed, there was a knock on the door and a concerned lieutenant stuck his head in.

"Everything all right, sir?"

"Stay out unless I tell you otherwise!" Barked and the lieutenant backed out quickly and shut, and locked, the door.

Sitting crosslegged on the floor, John feels like his head was too heavy for his neck and his chin lands on his chest. Fuck, he was tired. Exhausted.

He never asked to be John Connor. Marcus asked him what choice he had. None. He never had a choice. Not once he was born. He ran a hand over the back of Marcus's head, resting it on his neck.

"John..." he said after a long silence, his voice hoarse with grief, "I don't know what I'm supposed to do now."

"Stay with me," came the answer. "Stay with me and fight. We took the communication grid down. The war's nearly over. Marcus...." John paused for a moment, then said, "I need you." Not we, I.

"You don't need me," he said dully, not looking up, "you've still got Derek." Maybe they could just switch him off. What use was he, in the end. More of a liability, than anything else.

Derek had been fighting with them for six months. He was a good fighter, strong. This wasn't John's Derek. "No, Marcus," he said again, quietly. "I need you. I --" It was hard to admit, to make oneself weak. "I ... need you. Please." Nearly a whisper, John's head still down, eyes up under heavy lids.

There was another long silence, but Marcus pushed up until he was kneeling in front of the other man, face drawn, looking just as tired as Connor. One hand came up to fist in the front of his shirt. "You didn't murder him," he said finally, "...even if you'd told him..." he choked and turned his head away for a moment, "even if you'd told him the truth, he would have still gone."

"I know." Low, dead. John did his job well, didn't he, painting his mother as a near-Madonna like creature. The fist in his shirt got him to his knees too and he didn't fight it anymore, falling into Marcus, kissing him hot and open and deep. Comfort of the basest kind.

"John," he said into his mouth after a long moment, sounding younger than thirty, even if he wasn't really that since he'd stopped aging, "John, I'm sorry."

At that, John shook his head. There was no place for sorry. Their world didn't allow for sorrys, even if he apologized so much himself. He pressed his hands to the sides of Marcus's face and held on, kissing him again. The door, the world was locked away. All there was was their pain and their ultimate fucked-up whatever it was between them. No apologies.

"Here?" Marcus asked as his hands returned to John's sides, sliding up under his shirt. It had been a while since they'd been together, but god did he want it.

John answered by way of pulling his shirt off, over his head. He'd left his guns outside. And he reached for Marcus's shirt. Now. Here.

Marcus let him get it off before his arms slid back around the man. His mouth found John's throat, seeking out a particular spot he liked, just behind his ear. He pushed a hand down the back of John's fatigues, nuzzling into him, a bit uncharacteristically, but appreciative, and affectionate.

It made John shiver, it made him want. Weak. The metal against his skin only made him weaker still, cock hard and throbbing between his legs. An arm still around Marcus's neck, his other he used to start to tug at his fly, pulling open his belt, the button, getting the zipper down.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked, needing direction, needing someone to give him just the tiniest bit of structure because the news of Kyle's death was enough to shatter him into a million pieces. He'd never be able to put himself back together again, unless he got help.

Something sparked in John and he looked up, eyes clearing, and narrowing. "Lie back." His hand was in the middle of Marcus's chest. "Lie back." That way, he could pull Marcus's pants down, not away, but down (what was new?) and wrestle his own pants down, suck on two fingers and look at the other man as he reached down, palmed over his balls and circled the tight pucker he found back there.

His legs bent at the touch of slick fingers and Marcus shifted on the cold ground, back arching just a bit. He kept his head up, meeting John's eyes, the metal hand curled against the back of his head. That was what he needed, he realized, to be taken care of for a little bit. A strange sense of gratitude filled him as John touched him. It wouldn't be so strange. Connor was nearly as big as he was, even if he'd never weigh as much, but it wasn't disproportionate or anything. Besides, who wouldn't feel safe in John Connor's hands?

Ask Kyle Reese.

John shook that thought away and pushed a finger inside Marcus Wright, half-man, half-machine. He could feel the metal against his skin and it grounded him. The heat around his finger made his skin feel too tight, made his cock even harder. Somehow, for being John Connor, he'd always ended up a bottom. Except for today. He pushed the finger in, crooking it as he pulled it out, knowing what that did to him, wondering what it'd do to Marcus. What would he feel?

He felt a finger pulling at him, brushing at skin he hadn't known could be sensitive, and it made him jerk. His head thunked back against the floor and he closed his eyes, fingers curling hard against John's head. He wish he could get his boots and pants off, wanting his legs spread wider, but that had never been an option.

To make the whole world vanish for an hour, maybe two? That idea was a dream, but one that John had regularly. No, not an option. He leaned in, though, brushing his mouth against Marcus's, eyes open, as he pushed that finger in again. It was tantalizing and intimate and oddly clinical how he watched for reactions; not unlike when he was seventeen. _I cut you open and I wanted you then_. Some things didn't change.

One finger became two, twisted and spread.

"Fuck," he moaned, leaning up into the other man's mouth, but keeping his eyes squeezed shut tight, "John..." Connor would have him squirming, soon. It felt too good, quick rushes of heat every time John bent or twisted the digits. He licked into his mouth, breathing hard through his nose.

If he'd opened his eyes, he would've seen John smirk, dimple creasing one cheek. Power. Such power this was. Two fingers became three and that was enough; they never had enough time to linger. He pulled enough clothes away, spit-slicked himself and as he pushed in, he leaned down, tugging on Marcus's lower lip with his teeth, a distraction for them both. The heat - the _heat_ \- was intense, the tightness making him moan, low, growled, from his chest.

"Ahh!" Marcus had never bottomed before, and the pain was sharp, biting needles into his skin, but then John was pushed deep, filling him. He could feel his body mold around the other man, adjusted to the alien sensation, information flooding his brain. "God, yes, please. John." Iron bound arms wrapped around Connor, holding him close, clinging.

It was not something he'd felt before; Marcus holding so tightly, as if losing John might break him apart. So many people needed a John Connor, the John Connor, so few people needed John, the man. It made it harder for John to breathe, made his heart beat harder, made him lever up onto his elbows to thrust slowly, deeply, aware of the pain he might be causing, but need overrode it. He was weak.

Marcus would have argued that if he'd known John was thinking it. As it was, he could only feel John, only _wanted_ to feel John. He moaned his name again, kissing over his jaw and throat. He'd never wanted anyone like this, at least, not since Allison, but it didn't matter because John was here now. The cement was cold and rough against his bare back, scraping, but fuck so good. His legs curled around John's hips.

The way Marcus said his name, the way his _body_ held onto John's. Unlike a woman in so many ways. _Better_ in so many ways. Hot and tight and the metal of Marcus's hand digging into his skin, all of it.

_Is that what you want, John?! What are you?! We fight the metal, we don't -- Get out of my sight._

Kate, pushing John away, finally, for the last time, when he'd dared trying to explain something. Anything. Months ago, now.

His rhythm grew sloppy, uneven, faster. Oh, God, yes. This. This was what he wanted.

He was gasping into John's ear, whimpering, clawing at the back of his head. "John!" He didn't care how loud they were being. Derek knew. At a certain point, they should shift into that time where everyone knew, but no one said anything. "I'm-..." god he was close, cock twitching between them.

He was? There was a surge of something hot, like power, running down his spine, pooling there, urging John to fuck in harder, deeper. "Fuck, Marcus," he hissed out. "Fuck!" It felt too good, it felt too -- everything. It felt like the sound of skin against skin was ringing off the walls around them. "Come on!"

His moan echoed loudly. Marcus' back arched, pushing up off the floor as his head strained back. He was clawing at the man's back, moaning his name continuously as his body clenched and tensed around him. It wasn't long after that that he came, from John inside him alone, from the heat that having him, holding him, generated. Marcus spilled himself over his abdomen, grunting through clenched teeth.

"Oh, Christ," John gritted out. The clench alone took his breath away, made his heart feel like it was stopping. Add that to the metal he could feel biting into his back and a few erratic strokes later, he was coming too, hips stuttering through it before he let himself collapse over Marcus, face in his neck as he panted, one hand wrapped protectively, firmly, over the top of Marcus's head. "Fuck," he breathed out with something like awe.

His limbs felt like jelly, but he kept his arms around the other man, holding him against his chest as he gasped for air. "Can we not..." he said in between gasps, "wait such long stretches in between this time?"

The question made John laugh, a soft sound muffled by Marcus's skin. "Are you asking me to be your boyfriend, Wright?"

"What?" he asked, turning his head away, embarrassed, "no."

"It was a joke." Holding himself up on his elbows, John looked down at him, at his profile, as he felt himself go soft, start to slip out. Damn. "There's no one else. Just you."

Marcus looked up at him from the corner of his eye. "Well, the kid outside knows it's just me, anyway." If he hadn't run away already.

"What?" Oh. John shook his head. He didn't care, not really. "Just don't get all mushy on me, Wright," he teased, as he pulled his hips back and fell with a grunt to lie on his back next to Marcus, a dimple showing before he sobered and looked over. "You okay?"

He was quiet for a long minute, looking up at the ceiling. "No," he said finally, "I'm really not."

Between them, John found Marcus's hand and held it, their fingers lacing together. "Tomorrow, we go to Bakersfield." The fight was narrowing. They were close. They couldn't stop. "You up to it?"

"Yeah, you know I am." He lifted his hips and wriggled his pants back up, feeling just a bit sore, which he didn't mind.

"Okay."

So much for cuddling.

+++++

Bakersfield was a bust but it did garner one thing. A machine. One they could try to reprogram. It would be John's first attempt and he knew how important it was. Or would be. And how much the Resistance (was Jesse out there somewhere?) would hate it.

The body sat in a chair, immobile and dead looking, a man with dark hair and brown eyes. John was bent over the chip, studying it for damage before he stuck it into his computer. No one else knew he was doing this, just Marcus.

"Here goes nothing," he muttered as he stuck the chip into the drive to read it, waiting.

Marcus stood in front of the machine, arms folded and eyes dark. "I'll twist off its head, Connor, if that's things eyes go red." He hated when the eyes went red. His gleamed sometimes, something else tinging the bright blue, but they never went red.

"It can't go red. I have its chip," John answered, watching file after file scroll over his screen, just like when he'd looked at Vick's when he was sixteen. "It's dead, essentially. This is what matters." The chip.

_How are you?_

I'm not one hundred percent.

Sometimes he still dreamt of losing Cameron.

Truth was, he didn't know where to start with the reprogramming. Not even a little. He needed to find the root drive and go from there. "There has to be a million files here. At least."

"What model is it?" Marcus asked, still watching the dead machine through narrowed eyes.

"I don't know. 800? 850?" John shrugged as he sifted through a system that made no sense to him, trying to work to the root file. "Did Derek ever tell you? In the other universe, this one, I guess, Allison was resistance. Killed after Cameron was modeled after her."

Marcus went rigid and it took him a moment to answer. "I knew about Allison."

Glancing up at him, John took in his posture and then looked back at his screen. "She might be out there, somewhere."

"Maybe," he replied flatly. But Allison wasn't here. And Allison wouldn't know him. And if she was going to be killed. Any thought of Kyle still made him go angry and cold. Marcus had been getting in more fights lately, some that he started, some that he didn't. He didn't want to meet Allison, only to lose her again.

John knew about the fights; there was little he could do. He would ask, beg even. It didn't seem to matter.

A lot of things didn't seem to matter these days. War was hell, he found himself thinking, chuckling softly, mirthlessly. "Ah." Finally. What looked like the root file; he pulled it open. "Okay. Let's see if we can do this."

Four hours later, he held the chip in his hand as he stood on one side of the body and he looked at Marcus. "Be ready." To, well, twist its head off if he'd done it wrong.

Marcus nodded, arms dropping to his sides, loose, ready. "Go on," he said, nodding to the other man, "let's see."

With a deep breath, John bent over, and slipped the chip back into the machine's head.

At first nothing happened.

Then, almost as if jump-started, the machine's eyes did go red. And he looked around, scanning the area, Marcus, then John. And he rose and reached for John's throat.

Okay, then.

Marcus moved before he even had time to think. One arm went around the machine's throat from behind. He grabbed the thing by the wrist and wrenched the reaching arm back. The machine, in reaction, threw itself backwards, connecting solidly with the wall, shaking some things off the shelves. But Marcus still had the breath to grab the thing by the jaw and the back of the head. All it took was some leverage and a swift jerk and he twisted the head off clear from its body, which then crumpled to the floor, sparking. The already blank faced head went still, the eyes flickering out.

After a moment of taking in his utter failure, John looked up and over at Marcus. "Thanks."

"No problem," he said, dropping the head to the ground. "You should get the chip out. Keep examining it."

"Yeah." Sighing again, John bent down, pulling out the chip. This was going to take some time. A lot of it.

So when he finally succeeded nearly two weeks later, he almost couldn't believe it. The machine stood there, waiting for an order, hands even clasped behind his back. John kind of wanted to laugh even, he couldn't believe it. He was exhausted and scrubbed his hands over his head, shaking it. Wow. His eyes skated to Marcus. _What do you think?_

Marcus was sprawled on the bed they shared, more often than not, hands behind his head and eyebrow raised. "Well, it isn't trying to kill you," he said, "and that's a start."

"No, you aren't, are you?" John asked.

The machine shook his head. "No, sir. I'm a lieutenant in the resistance, fighting against Skynet. My specialty is munitions repair."

It sure was; John programmed that in. Now he just needed to find Uncle Bob. Part of him wanted to sit down and cry. They had to introduce the machine to the ranks and capture more and reprogram them. He was behind schedule. (Part of him just wanted to climb into bed with Marcus and forget everything. Or try anyway.)

He went over and pulled the chip out, and the machine went limp again and John went over to Marcus, climbing over him. "I did it."

"Yeah," he said, frowning as he brought his arms down around the other man, "you did. You don't seem pleased."

"Oh, fuck. I'm pleased. Make no mistake. I'm just ... exhausted." But not that exhausted, see. There were orders not to disturb him except for emergencies. "We need to introduce that guy to the troops. That'll go well, I'm sure." Except not.

No, probably, considering many of them hadn't even accepted him. "Worry about it tomorrow," he said, settling his head back in the pillows, watching him through hooded eyes. "Have you eaten yet today?"

Food? John was caught up looking at Marcus. And wanting. He didn't even realize he hadn't eaten.

The machine was deactivated, but John couldn't help but think that it was watching them. It probably didn't surprise Marcus that that just made John harder.

++++

When they sent Derek back, it wasn't any better, but it was easier. Derek wanted to go, to save Kyle. The machines weren't any more accepted, but they were a reality. A few went bad; that was a reality too. After the light of the time bubble faded, John stood for a long time, arms crossed over his chest.

Marcus stood a few feet behind him in his usual spot, just waiting on the fringes, John Connor's ever present guardian angel. He tended to stay back when they were with other people, knowing most weren't any more fond of him than the full machines that strode the halls. But one by one, the other lieutenants went off to attend to various duties, until it was just Marcus and John. "Are you all right," he asked quietly.

There was a hesitation before John shook his head. "No, I'm really not." He didn't look at Marcus.

He stepped up to stand next to him, his hands folded over his broad chest. He knew the feeling. Marcus set a hand on John's shoulder. He needed to talk to him. Kate had approached him. He was pretty sure she knew, but now was really not the time.

It wasn't. Their daughter was getting older; John spent what time he could with her. But he was fighting, he was trying to give Sarah a future. And Derek still didn't remember the village. It shouldn't have hurt, but it did. He turned, closing his eyes and letting himself lean into Marcus's body.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, wrapping one arm around John's shoulders, hand to the back of his head. He turned his own head to speak against John's temple. "But John...we have to do something about Kate."

"That sounds ominous," John chuckled out, dryly. The goosebumps ran down his back just from that little bit of touch. "What do you suggest?"

"I'm serious," he said earnestly, hands coming up to frame his face, "Sarah isn't a baby anymore. It's one thing that you and Kate don't spend nights together much, but it's starting to get obvious where you _are_ spending nights."

"I can't get a divorce, Wright. There aren't judges, remember? What do you want me to do?" It wasn't like John got off on hurting Kate. It just... didn't work. "You want me to tell her ... what?" He didn't even know.

"We need to tell her something." We, not you. "Maybe you can't get a divorce, but it's not like a marriage is legally binding these days. Can't you...separate? For her sake." _And for mine_. "It's just that I'm pretty sure she knows."

"We have separated." Except without talking about it. Talking about it was ... difficult. Better avoided. But John knew it. He knew Marcus was right. He nodded and sighed. He'd talk to her. If she knew, then, well, it'd be pretty simple, wouldn't it? Simple and admitting that once again, John failed. God, he was tired.

"Come on," he said, still stroking his head, "let's go back. It's been a long night. And we still have to talk about the trip east." It was time to move. Each day saw less and less machines. Reports came in all the time of people going weeks without spotting metal. But Skynet was still there. The country was a big place.

The trip east. The idea made John even more tired. He thought of what Cameron said once.

_It's lonely being John Connor_.

She was right, for reasons she would never know. He nodded at Marcus. It was time to go. They had a lot to do.

+++++++++++

Marcus didn't flinch when his boot crunched over something that sound horribly like bone. It could have been a particularly thick stick, as this area had once been forested, but it was doubtful. Bones were more plentiful these days. The convoy was a good ten miles back, neatly hidden from aerial view, but he and Connor were scouting ahead. The sun had set, but there was still more ground to cover, and they hadn't had too much trouble from metal, so they'd agreed it was worth it to keep going.

He shifted the P90 in his grip and paused at the top of a ridge to scan. Nothing. Miles of nothing. According to the maps, they were where Colorado had once been. Many of the mountains had been leveled by the machines looking for minerals, but there were still heights, and he could see, it felt, for forever in every direction, his eyes tracking the horizon.

John hadn't expected this. It felt like a fist in his gut. He'd never been to Colorado, but hell, everyone knew the Rockies. Skynet even took that from them and the hate he felt surging in him flushed his face. He was tired (he was always tired these days). Between that, and Marcus's scan, somehow he missed the sound behind them, only stiffening when they heard the safeties click off. Shit.

Hands up, he turned. If it was machines, they were outnumbered and dead. (He thought it was a bad sign that the idea brought a drizzle of relief.) There were men, a number of them, with their guns pointed.

Not machines.

"Who's in charge?" He asked. "We're Resistance."

Marcus turned as well, slinging the P90 back over his shoulder and letting his hands hang slack at his hands. He watched the men calmly, letting John do the talking. Generally it was best to keep his mouth shut, and his hand covered. Marcus' reputation didn't tend to precede him as John's did. They wouldn't know he was a machine.

"We know who you are," the man in the front said gruffly, and with that there was a brief salvo of bullets, all aimed at Marcus. He hadn't been expecting it, and the force of the impact was enough to knock him off his feet. He landed hard on his back, skidding down a few feet on the loose earth. He could feel each bullet as it lodged in the Coltan, and was already, even as he stared wide eyed up at the dark sky, gasping for air, assessing the damage. Two in his chest, one in his shoulder, one had passed between his ribs, another in his thigh.

"_No!_" John rushed, pushing himself between the guns and Marcus's body, turning to put his hand up as he skidded, his other arm and most of his body draped over Marcus. "Nononono. If you know who I am, you _won't do this_." Jesus Christ! How many bullets?! How many?! Staring at the men, and the guns still pointed at them, he hissed out the question over his shoulder, "Are you all right?"

It took him a moment before his brain would let him talk, too busy making sure that everything was, in fact, all right, but he nodded once, shortly. "Yeah," he said, voice hoarse, "yeah. Yeah. _Shit_."

"Don't get up," the first man said, clearly to Marcus, "we're putting you in a truck. We're taking you back to base. We know about you, John Connor, and your machines."

What? They come all the way to this?

_We're waiting._

For me to mess up?

No. For you to be human.

John took a deep breath. "You put him on a truck, I'm going with him." With Marcus's assurance that he was all right, he stood. "Who _the fuck_ is in charge here?! God_damnit_. We're fighting Skynet. Not each other!"

"We're fighting Skynet, Connor. Apparently you're keeping them as pets." The man sneered as the sound of a truck neared them. A large jacked-up pick up appeared over the ridge and skidded to a stop a few feet from them. A few of the men lowered their guns and started toward Marcus to move him into the truck.

"You're going to need more than three," he said in a low voice, not moving. He was losing a lot of blood, and it was evident in the strength of his voice. "Better if I walked."

"Get back." John raised his gun, thumbing off the safety, pointing it at the soldiers. "Get. Back. Or I will shoot you in the faces."

Time was folding in on itself again. Holding the gun, pointing it at his mother, Derek, Charley. Protecting Cameron. In the middle of Colorado, protecting Marcus.

It seemed fitting.

Who would shoot John Connor? This was always his advantage, wasn't it? He wasn't above exploiting it.

The men hesitated, and the man who was doing the speaking made a sound of frustration. "Fine! But get him in the truck."

Marcus started pushing himself to his feet, wobbly, but able to stand. His shirt was stained with blood, as were his fatigues. It was enough to have their captors staring. They were used to the machines standing after bullets hit them, but they weren't used to the blood. "Assholes," he muttered as he handed the P90 over.

John hooked his arm around Marcus's waist to help him, to check, to make sure that he got there all right. What the fuck. Heads were going to _roll_. Under his breath, he said to Marcus, "Talk to me."

"I'm all right," he said, trying not to lean too much on the other man. "Just need to stop the bleeding. They didn't hit anything important."

"Shut up!" came the rough bark as Marcus hauled himself up into the truck bed. He was immediately yanked back and manacles clamped around his wrists with chains attached to the truck bed. He snorted and rolled his eyes.

There was no point in fighting. John just sat across from him. It was becoming a trend in their life. Chains.

Too bad they weren't kinky.

Okay, so maybe he chuckled a little bit. Just a little.

At the HQ, he stormed in, Marcus leaning on him while not leaning on him and he demanded to be taken to the one in charge, to whom he proceeded to ream, using any number of four-letter words.

It became clear that his choice to utilize reprogrammed machines wasn't a popular one.

No shit.

When they were finally left alone, though it was clear that there were men with guns on the other side of the door, John got Marcus set down. "We need to get those bullets out of you."

"They're starting to sting," he said dryly as he leaned against the wall, head dropped back and eyes shut, "shit, John. This isn't good..."

"What was your first clue?" John even smiled a little. It'd taken threatening even to get a pair of pliers. "Our men will be here in the morning." There weren't any reassuring words. None. He had to adjust the light and bent down to start pulling the bullets out.

Marcus dug his fingers into the floor, one leg curling up as he fought with the inevitable pain. There were some things that didn't hurt at all anymore, but fresh bullet wounds weren't on that list. "Maybe I should go back to California," he said quietly, "I don't know if I'm going to cause anything but trouble for you."

"Are you breaking up with me?" It was a lame joke, but it hid more. John didn't look up. He didn't give Marcus a chance to answer. "Don't go. Fuck them all." One casing clanked on the table. Four more to go.

"What if my presence means they don't obey you, John?" he asked, trying to keep his breathing calm, "I can't undermine you."

"If they don't obey me? ... They don't obey me." Looking at the big picture, the fight was nearly over. The idea of actually doing this without Marcus was ... unthinkable, John found. "Hold on." He had to dig deeper for the bullet in Marcus's thigh. "Maybe they don't need John Connor anymore," he heard himself say.

Marcus cried out once before he could clamp down on it, eyes gleaming bright, as close to red as they ever got, and his jaw clenched. The gloved hand dug into the floor so tightly the cement cracked. "Wouldn't that be nice," he said in a rush of an exhale.

John smirked, just a little as he finally got a hold on the bullet, and he tugged. "Do you ever think about it? What happens after?"

"After what?" he asked, letting his head drop back and his eyes shut again, "After this is over? John. I didn't know you were so naive."

That got John to look up and something crossed over his face. "No."

"I don't see how this will ever be over," he said, still not opening his eyes, "sometimes I can't even believe we're still fighting, there are so few of us left." He paused, reconsidering that. "There are so few of _you_ left."

Oh. For some reason, John had thought Marcus was going to pull an Uncle Bob. His heart had twisted _hard_ at that idea, enough to leave him short of breath. "We're going to win."

"What are we winning?" he asked, cracking an eye open, "a nuked planet, anarchy. Maybe we'll win and just...run out of food." He gave a rough, humorless laugh. "Starve to death."

With a twist, John got the bullet out and tossed it onto the table. "What do you want me to say? Tell those people out there to just give up? Fuck. You can be a prick. Not like you need to eat, anyway."

He grunted in pain and turned his head away. "Maybe not, but those people out there just put five bullets in me, so I guess I'm not feeling charitable."

For a moment, John let his head fall, his chin to his chest and he closed his eyes. "Do you really believe that?"

Marcus didn't answer for a long time, still staring off to the side. "No," he said finally, dully, "I don't."

Maybe he was lying. Frankly, John didn't care. But to believe they were doing this for this long for nothing made him want to shoot himself (yeah, he thought about it). He paused for a moment before answering. "Okay."

The bullets in Marcus's chest were going to be tricky. "You need to lie down."

Marcus took a deep breath and tugged his ruined shirt over his head before lying back. There were some glimpses of metal through the torn flesh. "When I was fifteen, I would have thought getting shot and surviving was cool."

"Lost its lustre, huh?" John's smirk was muted, but there. He straddled Marcus's hips, got the light closer and bent down. "When I was fifteen, I thought ... I don't remember what I thought was cool. The Smiths, maybe."

"You were one of those then, huh?" Marcus stretched one arm up above his head, pulling the line of his side tight. He was quiet for a moment. "You remember taking me to Data's to fix my hand, and I was panicking and you got me talking about what bands I liked to calm me down?"

"Oh, shit." Chuckling, John nodded. "I remember. And if you say 'emo fuck,' I will kick you when you're down."

"Kid," he said, a smirk in his voice, "I'm too old to know what emo is. I've got a good fifteen years on you, remember?" Except those fifteen years had been spent dead, waiting to be woken up, in a Skynet lab.

"Kid. I'm your elder now." He didn't really forget that. John met Marcus's gaze for a moment before concentrating on what he was doing, careful now. So careful. "What, you didn't like the Smiths?"

"No, I was just remembering," he said, trying not to flinch away from the pliers. "All those bands I named, I only liked them because my brother liked them." It was the first time Marcus had mentioned his brother since the village.

"You lied?" John was amused. Another thing from the village came back to him.

_I cut her open. She was perfect._ He'd told Marcus about Cameron. Now here he was inside Marcus's chest. "Careful," he said. "I'm inside you. Tell me the truth now. Favorite bands."

Marcus struggled against a rush of heat at John's words. "I wasn't lying. They are my favorite, but they're my favorite because my brother liked them. I did everything he did. It was fucking pathetic." He gave a rough laugh.

"He must've been a hell of a man." There it was. John bent closer, angling the pliers. "You don't talk about him, much."

"He was barely a man," he said, hissing against a sharp sting. "He was a loser who could barely take care of himself, much less his younger brother."

"So, you did everything he did why?" John grasped and pulled, slowly this time, slowly. Careful. Not having brothers, there was no way he could understand.

"Because he was my brother," he said, rolling his eyes up to look at the ceiling.

"Oh, okay." John's eye-roll was nonexistent but there in spirit. "If everyone jumped off the cliff, would you jump too?" The bullet landed on the table; he gusted out a breath, relieved.

Marcus shrugged, clearly unwilling to talk about it anymore. His relationship with his brother wasn't exactly something he was eager to discuss, and because he'd been the one to bring it out, he dropped it. But it did, however, make him realize just how little John knew about his past. "One left, right?"

"Yeah." Before he went back in, John leaned down and forward, pressing a quick, but firm, kiss to Marcus's mouth. Back to work.

A bit surprised by the kiss, Marcus stared at him for a short moment. "Never knew my dad," he explained before he lost the impetus to do so, "mom kick me out when I was seventeen. My brother was all I had, and my brother was a junkie and a crook." And so, Marcus was too.

And after how many years, John was learning about Marcus's family. It seemed fitting as he was reaching into the man's chest. "Do you miss him?" Adjusting the lamp again, John bent down even loser, nose practically to Marcus's chest. Shit, this was going to be tricky. "Your brother."

"Sometimes," he said, looking down at John as he worked, "most of the times, no. He uh..." Marcus dropped his head back and closed his eyes. "He got me on meth, and I wanna blame him for how my life turned out, you know? But I can't, really."

"We all make choices." Abstractly as John worked deeper. "Meth, huh. That's heavy." Said the one who only ever did pot or drank in the village. Getting high with Harry. God, he hadn't thought of that in _years_.

"Yeah, small town Texas. We were a bunch of rednecks." He closed his eyes. "Sometimes I'm scared to tell you things about myself before...any of this."

"After all we've done." All of it, the fucking and the fighting and all that? John looked up at him. "You can tell me anything." After all, Marcus knew ... everything about John. The best, and the worst.

"I was never the kind of man you are, John," he said, shaking his head, "I was a coward, a junkie and a murderer."

"What kind of man am I, Wright? I had no childhood, I fucked my uncle and I get off on your metal hand, am about half-way hard because I've got your chest open. I'm in no position to judge now, am I?" John's expression was wry.

Marcus wanted to give him a shake. He'd never hurt people like Marcus had, but he was sure John would come up with something in an effort to prove him wrong. "Have you got the damn thing or not?" he asked, referring to the bullet.

"Hold still." He had to twist some to pull the bullet from the Coltan, but it came free and John dropped it on the table. "There. Happy? I need to get the one in your shoulder. You can go back to feeling sorry for yourself, now, if you'd like."

"Don't," he said, shaking his head, "I'm allowed to feel sorry for myself when I'm having lead twisted out of my chest, all right?" Marcus sat up suddenly, eyes narrowing sharply.

"Does that go for me, too?" John dropped the pliers for a minute and rubbed over his face. "I am so fucking tired. I am ... So tired." He just sat on Marcus's hips for a moment, even as Marcus sat up, his shoulders slumped forward. "I think of giving up every fucking day. Every single fucking day I want to give up. You know what keeps me going?" He wasn't looking at Marcus, but at the far wall, uncaring if they were being listened in on or not.

Marcus sighed heavily and reached up to drag his gloved hand down the back of John's head. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to the other man's. "I'm sorry."

"Do you want to know what keeps me going, Marcus?" John asked, voice lowered to a whisper, his eyes closed, savoring the contact.

He wasn't sure he did, but Marcus just nodded a bit, keeping himself close. He kept his eyes open, watching Connor.

"I have this ... dream." For lack of a better word. Not that John slept long enough to dream most days. "That there's this ... lake somewhere that hasn't been shitted up. And a house, right there on the lake." It's stupid. The only time he's lived near the water was when he stayed at Charley's house. Charley, who died defending him. "And it's quiet. And it's just --"

Fuck, he was tired. Something balled up in the back of his throat and it took a few times to clear it. His voice was husky as he went on. "And it's just you and me. And it's ... quiet."

Marcus swallowed hard. He continued to stroke the back of John's head, clinging to him as much as he was holding him. "We'll get there," he said in a low voice, "I'll get you there, Connor."

It was stupid. It was the daydream of a seventeen year old boy who didn't yet know war. It was _normal_.

Stupid.

But it was what John thought of. And Marcus knew, then.

"I need to get that bullet out of your shoulder."

"Hey," Marcus said, tugging John's head up so he had to look at him. "I'll get you there."

The truth was that they probably wouldn't ever see anything like that. For who knows how many reasons. And John didn't think he could cry anymore; it'd been years since he had. But he was selfish, too, and he didn't care if there were cameras. He kissed Marcus, hard, deep, wet. And for a moment, he knew peace.

Marcus wasn't even thinking as far as cameras. He inhaled sharply as he returned the embrace, his fingers digging into his scalp. He pulled back after a long minute. "Get this fucking bullet out of me, all right? I know it turns you on, but it stings."

"The bullet doesn't turn me on," John corrected. He pushed Marcus to lie back, moving so he could roll to his side. That was the easiest one to remove. Each of the wounds had alcohol poured into them, then they could sit. John could pull Marcus's glove off, too, stuffing it in his pocket before closing his eyes.

Marcus curled the hand around John's as they just sat. He let the sting of the alcohol fade, concentrating on getting those holes closed before anything could get them infected. Nasty thing about still having real flesh. It could rot just like any human's. "Think they're watching?" he asked quietly.

John's eyes opened and he looked around, scanning the walls and ceilings. "Do you see anything?" It was hard to tell.

Marcus turned his head, then nodded once. "Above the door." He pointed with his good hand. "Probably not doing you any favors right now, John."

Groaning, John shook his head. It figured. It just really figured. He couldn't muster the energy to care, though. "We get out tomorrow, we go, we don't look back." Maybe, he found himself repeating internally. Maybe the resistance didn't need John Connor anymore. But if he didn't fight --

Never mind. Moot point.

Marcus smiled. "We'll figure out what we wanna do tomorrow," he said, nodding, "but I gotta sleep if I wanna close these holes up."

"Sleep, then." It just took some scooting down to be on their backs. John stared at the ceiling for a while before closing his eyes.

When his men come, there's not much talking, but there are plenty of accusatory looks. Whenever John looked at someone, they'd look away. This wasn't doing him any favors, no. Marcus followed him out. And they didn't look back.

+++++

Despite the still-rudimentary communication lines, word seemed to travel fast. _John Connor loves the machines. John Connor is a liability. Did you hear what John Connor did? John Connor is compromising the Resistance_.

_Will you join us?_ The four words echoed in John's head in the days that followed. Weaver. Who was out there somewhere.

By the time they got back to LA, four months had passed and the whispers had turned to murmurs to the point where when he walked down the hall, people stopped talking all together.

It made John testy.

Finding Kate in his office made him testier even.

Having her tell him what she thought nearly had him punching the walls.

When Marcus came in after, he found John, elbows on his desk, head in his hands.

"What'd she say," he asked quietly, arms folded. He'd been getting those stares long before he and John had done anything. It wasn't as hard on him, he didn't think. But John looked tired, worn out, and that was hard on Marcus.

"That I should consider stepping down." In a nutshell. John looked up through his lashes at Marcus. "That I'm causing more harm now than good."

"Stepping down?" Marcus asked, "what the hell does that even mean?"

"It means I don't control the Resistance anymore if I do that. It goes to Stanford or Elias." Bedell was long dead, not quite the way Derek had told him. Nothing had worked out quite like he'd been told, had it? "I retire in shame so that the Resistance can continue its fight without the 'taint of my perversions.'"

"Because of me," he said, eyes narrowing. The answer seemed simple to him.

John shrugged a shoulder. "And the machines. You know they'll be destroyed if I step down." If, not when. Not yet.

"John, I'll leave," he said, "they still need you. I'll go. They'll forget it ever happened."

BAM, his fist on the desk and John stood. "_No_. Not an option."

Marcus stood his ground. "They still need you." It was a regrettable truth. "And I haven't been anything but a problem for you since I showed up."

There's a touch of wryness around John's grin, but no mirth. "They don't need me. We were gone for months and things are fine, Wright. You said yourself that they don't need me." Years ago, in a fight, angry words spit at each other. _The Great John Connor_. "The Resistance is unified now. I'm forty-five."

"Then what," he said, "you leave. You just fucking...take off into the wastes and hope some stranded T-800 doesn't pick you off? John Connor, cut down cuz his own people kicked him out."

His voice gone quiet, John said, "I was thinking of trying to find a lake somewhere. Maybe Northeast. Maine or something." If Marcus wanted a fight, he wasn't going to get it, not today. The urge to hit the wall faded as fast as it came.

Marcus' shoulders slumped and he stepped around the desk, sliding between it and John so he could wrap his arms around the man, still meeting his eye. "Then I'm going with you."

John's brows knit together. "I'm ... just so tired." Maybe new leadership would revitalize the Resistance. Renew the fight. Maybe he'd really done all he could do. Maybe. A patch of quiet, not unlike Hauvratat? It wasn't too much to ask, he thought in half a moment of delirium.

"We can take two bikes, pack light."

"Whenever you want," he said with a nod. He was quiet for another long minute. "I told you I'd get you there, Connor."

"Yeah, well, hold onto that thought. We'll need it."

They left when the sun was cresting the horizon without telling anyone. John Connor just ... disappeared to become a myth, after kissing his sleeping daughter. Getting out of LA was easy because they knew the roads. They spent the day driving past what was once Vegas, further west through Utah, stopping the first night just this side of the Colorado state line. No sense in tempting fate. A long-bombed out apartment building, deep inside, not lighting a fire.

John had expected to feel free. Maybe, he told himself, it was still coming. Maybe when they got into Nebraska. "I went to a school for a while where everyone wore cowboy boots. I got into fights every day," he said as he passed Marcus the canteen.

"Christ. I went to a high school like that," he said with a nod as he took the canteen. "Wife beaters and cowboy hats. Shit." He took a sip, enough to wet his mouth, but didn't need more than that. He sat with his back to a wall, as he usually did, and watched John in the dark. "But it was good, in the summers, cuz we'd all go swimming in these stagnant ponds and shit didn't matter, you know? The older kids didn't torture the younger ones so much." He blinked twice, ears peeled for any sound at all, and the thick silence was suddenly overwhelming. No animal sounds at all, no distant highway traffic, not even a god damn breath of wind. "Shit," he said again, whispered this time, the metal hand curling into a fist. It was moments like that when you truly understood just how empty the world was now.

It was the kind of quiet that echoed in your ears and seemed loud. But it was different from the hum of the tunnels and for some reason, it made John want to cry. Quiet. So fucking quiet. They were on their own, suddenly. Finally. He crawled the little bit over, to where he could feel Marcus's body, smell him. Taste him. He'd only been at that high school for a month before Sarah had moved him again.

He realized with a start he'd never see his daughter again. When he slept, it was deeply and he didn't dream.

The next day, they crossed Colorado at a diagonal, ducking off the road a few times to avoid what they weren't quite sure, man or machine. It didn't matter; they were both threats by this point. Nebraska was flat; Skynet couldn't change that, and it was hard to find something that hadn't been leveled. It was nearly midnight before they finally got to what might've been Lincoln and the husk of a downtown. They had to be careful, walking the bikes, engines off.

Marcus wound his bike through the shells of cars and broken debris, following John and scanning the street as they walked. Tracking. Always tracking. They hadn't seen anyone since leaving, despite having traveled hundreds of miles and it was disheartening. He was about to suggest they spend the night in four story tenement they were approaching, when movement far to their right caught his eye. He froze, head turned to watch the spot, focusing.

Something down the street scattered a small chunk of rubble and he pulled the handgun from the holster under his arm.

John's hand landed in the middle of Marcus's chest. Wait. It was so fucking _dark_. His pulse was loud in his ears.

Another clatter and the sound was unmistakable. Animal hooves on asphalt. But what animal?

Marcus felt his face go a bit slack in shock. "It's a deer," he breathed as what he could now see was a young buck cross the street tentatively, feet delicate on the asphalt, spry and wary. It was the first wild animal he'd seen since waking up in that pit what felt like a lifetime ago. "Jesus," he said in a quiet voice that made it almost sound like he was talking to the actual man, "it's actually a deer."

What John wouldn't have given to see, to not just see vague shapes in the inky blackness. But he could hear, and imagine.

Something lived. Not everything died.

_Kyle saw a deer once. He cried. We went hungry that night_. Derek's voice, clear as a bell in John's head. His hand fisted in Marcus's shirt.

"I told you," he said, holstering the gun and covering John's hand with his, "I told you I'd get you there, Connor." The deer spooked and went bounding off in between two buildings and Marcus turned to wrap an arm around John's shoulders, pulling him into his own bulk.

What was going on? John's throat felt tight, his eyes felt dry, and he clung to Marcus with grasping hands. Marcus smelled, still, as always of salt and the vague tang of metal and in the middle of the bombed out city, John kissed him, deep and hungry. Life. They were _alive_.

Things got greener the further away from cities they got. It was like they were traveling between islands of gray iron and concrete, isolated in a sea of burgeoning green, a world that was slowly, slowly coming back. They still couldn't drink most of the water. They still lived off the rations they carried with them, but they once stopped for the night near an actual stream, and Marcus had found a pathetic sapling forcing its way up right on the bank.

Three days after that, they rode through the south of Illinois, on gas fumes, into the remnants of a town that looked as though maybe it hadn't been picked clean yet. The sun was starting to sink and when they saw a gas station, it seemed like an easy decision. Marcus pulled onto the cracked tarmac and kicked the stand down before swinging his leg off and drawing the Glock under his arm. "I'll check inside," he said to his companion, "if you check the pumps."

It was on the tip of John's tongue to make some kind of joke about his balls vibrating off, but he didn't. Something didn't feel right, but maybe they'd been in the saddle too long. Maybe it was nothing. Of course the pumps were dead, but he checked all of them, looking around the find the emergency shut up, or the supply source. Maybe they could siphon. Or Marcus could siphon. He'd never known land so flat as they'd been riding through. Nebraska and Iowa seemed to go on forever and they'd passed a sign that said Bettendorf when they stopped.

Marcus shouldered into the gas station, not really expecting to find anything, but what he did find was a shot gun to the face. He got his hands up in the air without question, locking eyes with the bearded man who held the gun. There were two more men behind him, each with a rifle, and one darted up, taking the Glock from Marcus' hand. He didn't protest.

"We're just looking for fuel," he said in an even tone. Dejavu. Except Kyle was long dead, and Star was safe back in California.

"You're not gettin' any of our fuel," the bearded man said, "now back out real slow. We're gonna see what you got."

Marcus sighed mentally and began to do so, except a German shepherd came charging out of the back, followed by a kid who couldn't have been older than thirteen. Marcus swore under his breath, looking down at the dog, who began to bark, edging a nervous line in front of Marcus. Barking, and barking, and barking. The bearded man looked between the dog and stranger, eyes going wide, before firing.

The dog barking was what drew John. Even dogs were scarce these days. He edged up against the building, flat there, when as he stopped short of crossing in front of a window, gun cocked and ready. Dogs meant people. Humans. He didn't like the roiling in his guts. They'd been foolish to think they wouldn't run into _something_.

The shot gun blast hit Marcus in the chest, sending him stumbling back with a crash through the door. He was _tired_ of this shit. The Glock was still in his hand, but he dropped it to the ground before throwing himself at the man with the shotgun, taking him off guard so the two of them landed hard on the floor, Marcus' arms locking around his torso and throat. Immediately his companions fought to get the cyborg off their friend, pulling at him until one of them got wise and smashed a rifle butt to the back of Marcus' head. His vision blurred, grip loosening and they kicked him away, leaving the other man gasping painfully through an all-but-crushed windpipe.

"Fucking metal!" one of them howled, planting a foot on Marcus' torn chest and aiming the rifle between his eyes.

The report of John's gun surprised him in how loud it was. The blood that came from the man's head was very red and he moved forward quickly enough to catch the other rifle-holder by surprise. A beat, nothing more and he fired. The man when he fell didn't make a sound. The rifle was loud as it fell to the floor.

Jesus Christ. He stuffed the gun in the back of his pants and knelt over Marcus, turning him over. "Talk to me," he ordered, checking out his chest. "C'mon, Wright. Talk to me."

"There's one more," he said in between gasps for air. The chest wound was nothing, but he still couldn't focus his eyes. "Don't-..."

"Don't move!" The barrel of the rifle pressed to the back of John's head.

Fuck. John put his hands up and he closed his eyes. Everything, for this? Didn't they both deserve better?

"What are you?!" The man was yelling at John. Because metal didn't bleed, and they didn't check on each other.

"He's human," Marcus said from his spot on the floor, not daring to move. "Don't shoot him, he's human."

"Yeah, like you're human?" The man shook his head and in that instant, Marcus could see him make the decision. The rifle was still inches from John's head. He didn't know if it was the man that got him there so fast, or the machine, but before their assailant could pull the trigger, Marcus had snapped his neck, not even sure how he'd gotten off the floor. The body crumpled to the ground and it was only then that he realized the dog was still barking.

Thrown to the ground with Marcus's movements, John rolled to his back, chest heaving. Somehow, he'd never expected to see his life flash before his eyes with a human at the trigger. And with that, it hit him that he'd killed two people. Two humans. He'd killed three people in his lifetime and it ate into his gut. Now if the dog would shut the fuck up.

Marcus stood where he was for a long time, breathing hard and dizzy. His head was pounding, as though he could actually feel his brain throbbing in his metal skull. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, but when he opened them, they landed on the kid who'd had the dog. He was staring at them both, blank faced and wide eyed. Marcus groaned and turned away, bending to haul John to his feet. "We have to get out of here," he said, voice rough with lost breath, "it'll attract attention."

Pulled up, John looked at the boy. "You have some place to go?" He couldn't go with them. "You have food?"

"John," he said, "we have to _go_." This kid wasn't going to talk to him. They'd just killed three men in front of him, men who could have been friends, relatives.

"We can't leave him!" Not just like that. John's jaw was firm. He moved closer to the boy, not touching, just looking, bending down to his level. "Do you have food and a place to go?" Quiet, firm. For some reason, he thought of Savannah Weaver.

The kid was staring at him, horror starting to register on his face. "Answer him!" Marcus barked, starting to get anxious. He could hear people coming and the dog was still barking. The kid nodded suddenly, shortly, then fervently. "All right. Now, come _on_ Connor. I don't feel like killing anyone else today."

Something turned over in his stomach. "We need gas," John reminded him. "We need fuel!" Gun in hand, he pushed into the building, looking for fuel. People were coming, but they were sitting ducks if they didn't find _fuel._

Marcus growled low in his chest and ran around the back, picking up his Glock where he'd dropped it as he went, and found three of those red gas tanks at the side of the building. Presumably, the men they'd just killed had been its guard. Marcus hefted two. "Connor! One more back here!" He could see the people coming now, running from down the street, alerted by barking and gunshots.

Grabbing the last one, John ran hard to the bikes. Hopefully what they already had would at least get them out of this town.

In a moment of at last having something good, both of them started and they ducked down low hearing, rather than feeling the gunfire that followed them out. All they needed was three miles. Five maybe. Then they could gas up and he could vomit up the bile in his stomach.

They made it seven before Marcus' bike sputtered and died. He coasted to a stop and unstrapped the can he'd put on the back of his bike, on top of his gear, and immediately started to fill up. He'd stopped seeing double on mile three, but he was light headed, both from the blow and the blood loss. He ached. He was tired and still angry, but they couldn't stop for long. It didn't seem likely that anyone would follow them, but someone, bent on revenge, might try.

Climbing off his bike, John let himself fall to his knees, elbows there, head in his hands.

_The attic, handcuffed there, watching Sarkissian pistol-whip his mom; he had to get away. He had to get away to kill him before he killed his mom_. John could still feel the snap of his neck. Just as he could see the men's face before he shot them.

Men. Humans.

Fuck.

"We need to keep moving," Marcus said as he finished filling his bike, then moved to fill John's as well. It left them with a full can and a bit left. "John. Get up."

His hands scrubbed over his head and John sat there a while longer, looking up at him. "We had to do it. They would've killed us both." Was it reassurance he wanted? Checking his judgment? Two humans dead at his hands.

"Yeah, we had to do it." He extended a hand to the man, stained with his own blood. "Now get up. We really need to get moving."

After a moment, John stood. He was slow to let go. Marcus was right; they needed to go and sunset was still a long way off.

They got through the bottom end of Illinois, past Chicago, and ducked into Indiana, far from the highway, taking a jog north. There was what had been a subdivision, houses with basements. They were able to pull the bikes inside and bunker down, only one doorway to watch. John pulled his rucksack from the bike, and reached in for his tool kit. "You okay? We'll get that bullet out."

"Shot gun," he said roughly as he tugged his shirt over his head, canteen in hand. "Tore me up. You'll have to get the shot out." It was going to sting like a son of a bitch. Dozens of tiny little lead balls.

"Fantastic." He needed to get the light set up, then John could get to work. "How many times have we done this?" He asked, curious. Marcus would know.

"Four or five," he said as he looked down at himself, poking at shredded flesh. "_Shit_." A half broken cabinet stood against the wall, doors hanging open with the remains of paint cans rusting inside, and he sent it crashing against the far wall. "Fuck! Fuck! I never wanted to do that again!"

"That makes two of us." There was no humor in John's face and he set down the tweezers for a minute. "That was about the last thing I wanted to do. You're going to need to lie still." With a sigh, he picked up the tool and began to work again.

Marcus slumped down against the wall before stretching out on the dirty floor to let John work. "I never wanted to be a killer, Connor. I just kind of...tripped into it."

"Your brother?" Adjusting the light again, John leaned in, fishing out the small pieces of lead. He needed to get them all. It was going to be a long night.

"I killed two cops for him," he admitted, "and I died for it."

John knew that. He didn't care. "How did you trip into that?" He asked, because Marcus needed to talk about it.

"We were just holding up a gas station," he said, "but he went crazy, started talking about taking hostages and refusing to go quietly when the cops showed up. It turned into a shoot out. They were going to kill him and I thought...I thought I had to, that I'd be a bad brother if I didn't. But they shot him anyway."

A piece of shot rolled onto the ground and John looked at Marcus's face, brow furrowed. "I'm sorry."

Marcus wasn't looking at him. "This world sucks, John," he said after a pause, "it's always sucked. You gave your entire fucking life to protecting people like that and now they kick you out of your own home? They shoot at you?"

"What do you want me to say?" John said with a murmur, pulling out another piece of lead. "I don't know anymore. I don't know much of anything anymore."

"I don't need you to say anything," he said, finally focusing on the other man, "but you can talk to me, you know."

Another ball went rolling away. "You know what I actually think?" A smirk fluttered around the corners of John's mouth for a second before disappearing. "I'm free. I'm off the grid of whatever it was I was supposed to go. I did what I could, and now... I'm... free." He stopped, resting his hands on Marcus's chest, looking up, but at nothing. "It's unlike anything I have ever known."

"Yeah," he said, pushing up a little, "you are..." Marcus searched his face. "And you're at peace with that?"

"Peace?" John had to think about that. "I don't know. I ... don't know what I did wrong and what I did right. I don't know if I even know what peace is." It sounded like existential bullshit, but that didn't make it any less true. "Did you ever read the Wonderful Wizard of Oz?"

"No," he said, shaking his head, "look forget about the buckshot for now, all right?" He tugged John down with him.

"We need to get that out of you," John protested, before letting himself be pulled to lie down. "My mom read it to me when I was small."

Marcus kept him tucked into his side, his other hand coming up to stroke over a dirty cheek. "That's the one with Dorothy, right? Tin Man, Scarecrow?"

For some reason, that made John smile. "Yeah." There was no doubt who Marcus was. "The Tin Man who wanted a heart. It was different from the movie. In the movie, he was innocuous. In the book, the Tin Man got on the wrong side of a witch and his ax gradually chopped all his limbs off, had to be replaced with Tin. He couldn't fall in love then, which his why his ax was enchanted in the first place."

"Couldn't fall in love, huh?" Marcus brushed his thumb over John's forehead, smearing a patch of dirt. "Why did she read you that one?"

"I'm Dorothy," John said and saying it aloud? Sounded absurd. He had to laugh, head tucked down, cheek against Marcus's shoulder. "My mom was Aunt Em, who doesn't fit, but has to take care of Dorothy." There were times, he found, when he missed his mother with a nearly physical pang.

"No place like home," he murmured, stroking the other man's head still. "She was an incredible woman." Marcus looked down at him, "your mother, I mean."

"Only woman I ever truly loved, I think." And John felt an ache for Kate. How unfair of him. Anyway. "I have to get that buckshot out of you. We have a long way to go." He moved to sit up.

Marcus sighed and let his head drop back with a thump. He was tired of having to have things removed from him at all. "You're going to sleep tonight, aren't you?"

"I hope so." John leaned over him, reaching back into his chest. "I think we should get away from 80. Try different routes."

He nodded once, closing his eyes and letting himself go numb, almost to the point of sleep. He didn't like that. He wanted to feel the pain. "When we hit ocean," he said quietly, voice distant, "do we just keep going?"

"When we reach the ocean, we stop." In his mind's eye, John had a picture of what Maine would be like. Green and salty and cool. He had no idea if that was right or not. He didn't care, frankly.

Piece after piece after piece of lead was pulled from Marcus's chest and after looking around for a long time, John said, "I think I got it all. Can you tell?"

"No," he murmured, eyes still shut, "I can't feel it anymore."

"Okay." Alcohol and some gauze and John could put his kit away and lie down again, on his back next to Marcus. "Before everything, what did you want to be when you grew up?"

"Christ, I don't know." Marcus turned his head slowly to look at him, woozy from the blood loss that was catching up with him. "I guess the usual, when I was still a kid. Astronaut. Doctor..."

"Astronaut Marcus Wright." John's smile was rueful as he faced him. "Different life." And he touched Marcus's face with gentle, filthy hands. "Sleep."

"I won't sleep," he said, looking down at him, "but I'll be here..." Marcus leaned in to kiss him.

John had been going to say that he needed to sleep to heal, but then there was this and in the quiet, the way his heart beat harder, still, at this, seemed so loud. He cupped Marcus's face and kissed him back.

If anyone knew, what would they say? John Connor gave up the war for a machine. John Connor gave the war the best of himself, perhaps. But that last part would be a lie. No, he realized with a start, he'd given first Derek, then Marcus the best of himself. "Good," he whispered into the kiss.

They stopped for more time than they planned in Pennsylvania. They hadn't seen person or machine in days, but they didn't let down their guard. What they did find was a bomb shelter. Inside that, they found food. Rows and rows of cans of food. It was almost too good to be true, and they tested each can they opened.

Peaches, that are nearly too sweet. Cherries. Tuna even, salmon. Water.

And a bed.

With soap and a gallon of water each, they got as close to clean as they've been in months and John couldn't bear to put his clothes back on just yet. He laid there, on the bed, arm over his head, naked as the day he was born, but with more scars. This felt like a dream.

Marcus had pulled pants back on, letting them hang off his hips. He paused in the one doorway that separated the sleeping quarters from the bathroom, leaning against the wall. He was free of scars. Everything healed on him. No scars. Smooth, unmarked skin. "You look good," he said roughly.

"I'm not sure I was meant to live this long." It wasn't said morbidly, just the facts, man. "You look good." It was cool down here. Temperature controlled. John was still surprised by the hunger he felt as he looked at the other man. "Come here."

Marcus pushed off and crossed to the bed to join him. He shifted up close, draping an arm over his torso, flattening his hand against his side, over a scar. "I never used to care about showers," he said, winding a leg with the other man's, "but that felt fucking incredible."

"You don't stink." It was more an absence of smell than the smell itself. Interesting the things one could grow used to. One did grow used to. Besides, John was teasing. He found Marcus's mouth easily with his own and he didn't want to think that they had found this place others would too. Not now. Not at this moment. They'd earned a moment of perfection. His hand slid down Marcus's back under the material of his pants.

Marcus returned the kiss hungrily, shifting into the hand, half rolling on top of Connor. "We shouldn't get carried away," he said in between two particularly sloppy, eager kisses, "for all we know, whoever built this place is just out for a piss."

The idea was funny, even if John knew he was right. But he let his answer be the way he tightened his hand in the muscle of Marcus's ass. There would be worse places and ways to die. He didn't mean that, but he wanted. 'If they haven't come back yet-" It'd been a day now - "they're not coming back."

"Sloppy," he said, panting a bit against his mouth. Marcus gave a sharp roll of his hips, shifting over him some more, thigh pressed between John's legs. "Almost like your priorities are out of order."

Another funny idea. "You want to stop?" John was fed, he was clean, he wasn't in charge anymore. He was free.

He was horny.

"Did I say anything like that?" His pants were slipping down his hips. "So what, Connor? Want me to fuck you?"

"Yeah." John felt fevered. He hitched a leg up Marcus's hip. "I want you to fuck me, Marcus."

Marcus pushed up to his knees, working his pants low until he could kick them off. There really wasn't anything he liked better than being naked with this man. It was never hard to feel impassioned like this, never hard to want him so badly that his skin felt too tight. He leaned down, holding himself up over Connor, hands pressed into the bed over his shoulders.

The heat and weight over him was warm and welcome, the routine was too. Spit, a finger, two, twisting, the metal hand. Somewhere in there, John would beg Marcus -- it never changed -- Please, Marcus. And when Marcus pushed inside him, John groaned, low in his chest, his head back, fingers running down the other man's back, tracing along his spine.

Except this time they were clean, there was a bed under them and not a cold concrete floor. There was food to eat and a heavy door between them and all the various monsters they'd been running from most of their lives. Marcus moved slowly, head ducked so he could watch himself move, muscle shifting under skin and sweat making them both slick. He moaned quietly, the rhythm smooth, and the words were on his lips before his brain had time to catch up.

"Love you."

John forced his eyes open; they were dilated nearly black and he opened his mouth to say something, but Marcus hit him just right and he gasped, back arching off the bed. "Fuck, I love you too," he said, heel digging in, hands urging him deeper.

_The Tin Woodsman couldn't love._

They were off the grid. John was more than okay with that.

+++++++++

John expected getting through New York to be rough. It took them two weeks and a few more scars for himself. They didn't stick around. They'd avoided having to kill again, but Marcus knew it wouldn't last if they stayed in the cities. Boston was quicker to get through, but no less rough. Each close call had him more on edge, thinking they would get as far north as they wanted, only to meet their end. It made him short tempered, anxious and protective. He didn't sleep at all. He watched John instead, or walked the perimeter. But they were out of the cities now, on new bikes, loaded up with full gas tanks. The salt tang of the ocean had been startling, but now he found it reassuring and he wasn't sure why.

It smelled different out here. John found himself wanting to go faster, to go further, to take more chances. That, he knew, was when mistakes were made. They veered off the highway, sticking to smaller roads. It was greener, but turning brown. Winter was coming and having spent most of his life in California, John, for one, wasn't prepared for it. They needed to find a base -- a home. They stopped often, to listen, to reconnoiter.

It was quiet.

Really fucking quiet.

John could get used to this.

It was a long trip up. Every time Marcus thought they were stopping for good, John just got up in the morning, swung back on the bike and kept moving. Fuel was getting more and more scarce, but still they kept moving. The days got shorter, the air colder, which, unfortunately, Marcus felt quite keenly. And it wasn't until they were, by his count, two weeks into October that there was any indication of slowing down. They hit a town, Winterville, which he figured was ironic, that had clearly been evacuated before the reach of Skynet had swept over. It was a bit less destroyed, just as abandoned, but with food still in the super market, cars still in the driveways. It made Marcus feel a bit sick, really, but it was excellent for their chances of survival.

Walking through a deserted grocery store made John think of Cameron. Long story. More often these days, John would find memories attached to wherever he looked. They took more than they could carry, strapping it to the bikes and he'd lead the way, turning whenever a sign said water access. St. Froid Lake.

Saint Cold Lake.

It was fitting. It was there that John turned off his bike. On foot, they could search the area, house by house, building by building, before choosing a white clapboard with a dock right out into the water. The fireplaces needed cleaning but there was wood close by.

He looked over at Marcus. "Here."

Marcus stopped in his tracks. He figured they were just finding a place to crash for the night, but then John had started...inspecting. "Here?" He turned to look out over the lake. The nuclear blasts hadn't reached here directly, but the nuclear winter that had followed certainly had. Much of the vegetation was dead, and the water probably wasn't safe for consumption, but it wasn't a wasteland. They'd even heard a bird yesterday.

"We'll have to go back to town tomorrow," he said, coming up to stand next to Connor, "get more supplies to fix this shit up."

"Yeah." When was the last time he'd built something? John couldn't even remember. But he looked out over the water and he crossed his arms over his chest. Here. "Winter's coming."

Marcus chuckled and nodded once, folding his arms as well. "Ayuh." So sue him if he couldn't do a Maine accent well. He was from Texas.

It earned him a hand upside the head. But John's smile was sincere and he couldn't quite quash the feeling in his chest even if it took him a while to identify it. Hope.

Seeing as neither of them knew jack shit about insulating, they concentrated on cleaning out the fireplaces first, then they patched any obvious holes. The ache in John's body when he would fall into bed at night was a different kind from before. Exertion of building not destroying. Then there was wood to be chopped. Lots of wood to be chopped. There were benefits to Marcus being part machine. He'd chop and John would stack.

One day, batteries were found. A CD player that still worked. Johnny Cash, "I Walk the Line." John had to put his head down.

Marcus had never been so domestic as this. The kitchen was crammed full of all the canned goods they could get their hands on, and when it came to meals, they had to get creative. It was getting colder, too, the nights longer. The music helped, and Marcus had come back from town once with a much larger selection than what they'd found in the house. He was rifling through the bag when he kicked the door shut behind him, eventually tossing a Smiths CD to the other man. "Floyd, too. And Guns and Roses."

"Shit." John chuckled. The Smiths. He put them in and listened to a few songs as he pushed over a bowl of Chicken and Stars soup.

Two songs, that was it. He pulled the CD out. "That ... is crap."

Marcus laughed as he sank down at the table, poking at the soup. "Put in the Floyd, yeah? That, is _not_ crap." It was actually warm out today, and the window over the sink was open, letting in a breeze. They'd actually seen snatches of sun, despite the cloud cover that had hung over the planet since Judgment Day. Things were changing. Marcus took a bite of the soup. "Though I might actually go swimming, before it gets too cold again. Coltan doesn't rust, does it?"

"No, but it's heavy. You'll sink. So don't go too deep." Cromartie had taught John that. "Swimming? Really." The Floyd was put into the player and John leaned back in his chair. Why not? Things were changing. They could go _swimming_. "If I catch hypothermia, I blame you."

"It's 68 degrees outside," Marcus said, pushing to his feet, "you'll survive." And trust his judgment of the temperature. He was already turning to go out the door, tugging his shirt over his head and kicking off his boots. The door shut behind him with a slam and then there was a splash.

"Christ. I might be too old for this shit." But John wasn't that far behind, clothes in a pile at the door and he felt the wood under his feet as he ran down the dock and he pulled his knees to his chest to go into the water.

It was an impressive cannonball if he did say so himself. Holy fuck, the water was cold and he was gasping when he surfaced, shaking the water from his face.

"Shit," Marcus was saying as John surfaced again, "I really don't fuckin' float, do I." He was treading water, hard. "This feels like a design flaw."

"I warned you." But John was laughing, hard. "I had one chase me into the Pacific and nearly drown me when I was seventeen. I ask Cameron for help getting out and she just said, 'I don't swim.' No shit." He paddled over, grinning. "You okay there?"

"I'm fine," Marcus said, lifting his nose at him, "who the fuck are you, the Little Mermaid? Couldn't be such a good swimmer."

"It wasn't about swimming; he had my coat was going to drag me down." Kicking a few feet away, John splashed water at him. Because he could. "How the hell do you even know the Little Mermaid?"

"I died in 2003, Connor, not 1880. Why would I not know about the Little Mermaid?" Marcus swam closer, a bit of a gleam in his eye.

"I didn't figure you for the cartoon type, Wright." Another paddle back and another splash.

"Also didn't live under a rock." Marcus dived on him, catching John around the waist to bring him under for a quick dunk. He was heavy, though, so he let go quickly, not wanting to actually drown the man.

No, drowning John Connor, even if it didn't matter that he was John Connor, was still no fun. John came up sputtering and flicking the hair off his face before it was his turn to leap onto Marcus, 'helping' him down.

Marcus was laughing and he got a mouthful of water. He was coughing when he forced his way up to the surface again, an arm around John's shoulders, holding him back against his chest.

"I swear to God, Wright, you drown me now and the relationship's off. We are _so over_." But John laughs as he says it, laughs hard, and it all feels so _good_ even if the water is frigid and he's starting to shiver.

He was still laughing, holding John to him. "Just a little fresh water, Connor," he said, dunking them both back into the water, "what are you gonna do?"

Spluttering out water again, arms around Marcus's neck, John said, "I'm gonna... hope my balls to shrivel up to nothing, that's what I hope." Another laugh and he arched a brow. "Scared yet?"

"Hey, that affects you almost more than me," Marcus said, arms wrapping around his torso, holding him close, hands flat against his back.

"Yeah, well, that's all I got." John's grin was rueful, arms coming around Marcus's neck. It was like a scene out of some movie whose title he couldn't recall. "Not so intimidating now, am I?"

Marcus scoffed. "When were you ever intimidating?" he said with a wrinkled nose.

"What?!" John made his eyes all wide, feet paddling in small waves under the water. "I was intimidating! Are you telling me I wasn't intimidating?! I was the savior of the Resistance, and you say I wasn't intimidating. I need to get some chains. Remind you who was in charge."

"Yeah," he said with a sneer, "you'd like that, wouldn't you." Marcus reached down and gave his ass a squeeze.

"What if I would, huh?" There was a flash in the back of John's eyes, at the touch; he hooked a leg around Marcus's hips (even if it was too everloving cold to have any action going on down there).

"You wouldn't get a complaint from me." Marcus turned them slowly, a hand coming up to smooth water off his hair. "Don't know if you have chains on hand."

"Ooh, kinky." John's smile was warm though. "Do I look different?" Chains got him thinking, the first time they met, see. Over ten years ago. Marcus, who hadn't changed, John, who had.

"You look older," Marcus said with a nod, still turning them. He reached up, smoothing two finger tips down down the side of his face. "Is that...I mean..." he knew he looked the same. Twenty eight years old forever.

Somehow, John wasn't able to not lean in to the touch, eyes closing just a little. "Is it what? That I'm beginning to feel like the dirty old man?" Teasing, his eyes light. "No. I just wondered." He didn't make a habit of looking in the mirror.

"What about those chains?" he asked, hands roaming again. The water was getting too cold and he was already back them toward the dock, pulling John through the water without trouble.

"I need to go to the hardware store." Which reminded John. They needed to secure the perimeter before the ground got too hard. Sensors and landmines. In case they got company. "I'll get them if it turns you on."

"Yeah," he said, smirking, "it turns me on."

"Ah-ha." Soft, throaty. "I thought so." But John was grinning. "If I have any balls left after this little dip, I'll take advantage of you, Wright." And before Marcus could pull them entirely out of the water, John kissed him and he could taste the water and the freedom that it meant. And it was good.

Marcus tipped his head and returned the kiss deeply. His hands slid up his sides, licking into his mouth, tugging on his lip. It was good. It felt good. They'd found it, it seemed. Neither of them wanted to move, or shift, or think about anything besides these moments when it was just the two of them.

When they did finally drag themselves ashore, dashing into the house to dry off and fall into a bed that's still remarkably soft from what they'd both been used to, John was under Marcus and wrapped a leg around his hip, fingers scouring down his back. "Did you rust, Wright?" He murmured, mouth trailing down his neck.

"No," he breathed, nuzzling into him in return, sliding between John's legs. God, he was always so warm, even after fifteen minutes in freezing water. He rocked up onto his knees, hands sliding up John's thighs to his hips. "No rust. God, I want you."

Those words made John even warmer. Something that hadn't faded or gone gray as he'd aged; his desire for Marcus never wavered. He rocked his hips up, feeling his cock fill rapidly. "I want you, too. God." He slid his hands down Marcus's back to his ass, turning his head so their mouths met.

He panted into his mouth, soft, needy sounds leaving him unbidden. Marcus reached between them to take a hold of John's cock, brushing the head, still rutting between his thighs. Skin chilled by water was quickly heating and it was making him dizzy, one too many blows to the head making him susceptible to changes in temperature. "What is it," he panted, "what do you want?"

"You," came the answer. Predictable? Maybe. It didn't matter. There were no clothes to shed. John rolled them (the bed was queen sized, felt huge, still) and straddled Marcus's hips. Reaching between them, he wrapped his hand around both their cocks, stroking slowly as he bent down, leaving room for the movement of his hand. He wanted more of Marcus's mouth. "I'll ride you."

Marcus leaned up to meet the kiss, hands stroking up and down his sides, moaning happily. "Yes," he murmured, "_John_." His chest was heaving gently, still just leaning up to pant open mouthed against John's lips.

Something only Marcus got to see flashed in John's eyes. Lust, deep and heavy in the way his cock jerked against the other man's. He replaced his tongue with two fingers and had Marcus wet them, before reaching back to open himself up, the groans lost against Marcus's mouth. "Touch me," he urged, licking in again, hips already rocking. "Marcus."

He lapped at his fingers, sucking at them. He pressed a hand in the small of his back, his other wrapping around John's cock, stroking slowly. He was unable to stop kissing him, even for breath. He just needed his mouth, his tongue and his taste.

Just as John needed him. _Needed_ him. Put aside that John would be dead however many times over. This wasn't even about that. This was about what Marcus gave John that no one else could. On a base level, on so much more than that.

Not that they talked about that.

A few minutes later, no more than that, he was pushing himself up, muscles of his legs cording, so he could work himself down on Marcus's cock. His eyes were dark, lids heavy, mouth kiss-swollen. "Fuck."

Marcus groaned, his teeth clenched and head straining back. "God, yes, John..." his hands dragged up his thighs to his hips, fingers flexing, "_yes_." He forced his eyes open, watching him intently, licking his lips.

If John were younger, less involved in what he was doing, he'd feel smug, powerful for making Marcus react like this. But he was reacting just as strongly, just as needfully. His erection flagged for a moment as his body was adjusting to the invasion, but it came back as he started to move, hips just rocking at first, feeling the way their bodies responded to each other. "Christ," he hissed out, head lolling back on his shoulders. "Oh, fuck."

At that, he lifted up, feeling himself being emptied, only to fill again as he slid back down. "Christ, Marcus."

Marcus struggled for breath, closing his eyes again, hands moving restlessly. "I love you," he murmured through a small moan, "_John_." He lifted his hips up to meet him, wanting to stay there, keep himself deep.

They both wanted that, it seemed. John kept his hips flush against Marcus's, rocking, and it was dirty and hot, sweat even formed at his hairline as he bent to kiss him again. "I love you, too," between kisses, between swipes of tongues. God, he did. He really did.

Marcus kept him bent down, arm hooked around his neck, hand pressed to his cropped hair. They didn't say it often to one another, and when they did, it was usually like this, moaned into the other's mouth, in between heated kisses. He shifted under him, grinding up into John, the blunt head of his cock pressing inside.

"Ah, fuck." Marcus knew, too well, how to render him nearly mute. Not that John was big talker anyway, but Marcus could get him to where he only groaned, breath hitching, hips rocking like he imagined a whore to move. He keened a sound into his lover's mouth. "You're gonna make me come."

"Yeah?" he gasped, still grinding up into him, "yeah. Fuck, John. I wanna see you come. _Fuck_."

"Christ." It just meant changing the angle, just a little, not a lot. Just. A little. "Shit. Coming." A second later, his cock pulsed and he felt the waves of pleasure pulse through him, out of him and he groaned against Marcus's tongue.

He got a moan in return, Marcus' grip on him tightening. His hips jerked up, abdomen tightening and eyes squeezing shut as he followed not even a minute later. He cried out, head dropping back. "I love you," he whimpered again, shuddering hard as the orgasm swamped him.

Mouth to Marcus's neck, John panted out that he loved him too. Fuck. "I hope I never get too old to do that," he said as he fell to his back next to him a few moments later. "That would truly be unfortunate." He turned his head to press a kiss to Marcus's shoulder. "Remind me to get those chains when we go into town."

"I'll make sure," he said once he'd caught his breath. Marcus rolled onto his side and settled his head on John's shoulder, curling into his side. "Hungry?"

"In a while." Easily John's arm curled around his neck, hand splayed against the back of his head. In a minute. They had time, here, some, to savor the way the sun was coming in through the windows (before they had to board them up for the oncoming winter). John turned, body pressed to Marcus's, forehead to forehead.

Marcus closed his eyes and let himself relax, smiling just a little, listening to John's breathing, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. He didn't know how they'd survived to make it here, but they had, and it was beginning to feel worth it.

More than worth it.

But they couldn't relax yet. Trenches were dug along the perimeter, means of motion detection, traps, leaves and ground pushed over to make it look less obvious (leaves. There were leaves to rake, to use), propane heaters rigged, fuel stored, campstoves to actually heat food, wood stacked high along the side of the house, even the rowboat they'd found stored out of the water for the winter. Maybe, they told each other, next year they could fish.

Winter came. John hadn't known such cold, ever. There was no reason to go outside; they had all they needed, and he would sit, for hours, watching the water of the lake, choppy with the wind before it too iced over. "Hey, Texas," he called. "You ever experience winter?"

"What do you think?" Marcus didn't like the cold, and rarely got out of bed without at least three pairs of socks on. "Fuck the North, man." It brought the southerner out in him, cursing shoddy yankee craftsmanship whenever something broke, his accent just a little stronger. He sitting on the small couch, a particularly nice Winchester they'd recovered dismantled on the table in front of him. He was cleaning it, planning on seeing if he could pick off one or two of the deer they'd seen just outside of town.

It amused John, the socks thing. Their bed had inches of down comforter on it, but getting in it at night was still a lesson in fortitude until it warmed up. He made coffee, brought Marcus some as he sat down next to him. The idea of having real meat made his mouth water. "Think you can catch one?"

"Shot a deer before," he said with a nod, pausing in his cleaning to sip at the coffee. "And we need it. I figure another three months of canned food'll tip you over the edge, Connor."

"What and go crazy? Start gnawing on your arm?" That amused John too. "It'd be good. Figure out a way to smoke it, make jerky or something."

"We could probably find a smoker in town," he said, nodding and rubbing the iron over with a greased rag, "you gonna come with me? To hunt I mean." The word 'hunt' held a particularly southern twang.

He hadn't planned on it. It was cold outside. But John nodded. Best, always, to have back-up. "When are you going?"

"Tomorrow morning," he said, glancing at him, "truth is, don't like leaving you here." Marcus was protective, to say the least.

"I'll go with you." Simple as that. "We have canned ravioli." John waggled his brows. "Tasty." But the sentiment wasn't ignored, or brushed off. John ran his hand over Marcus's head as he rose. "Canned peaches or pears?"

"I'm not hungry," he said, shaking his head, "you get what you want." He leaned into the touch while it was there before going back to the gun. Granted, he hadn't gone hunting in a while, but Marcus could be damn quiet when he wanted, and as long as he stayed downwind, the animal wouldn't smell his metal.

Hunting in the snow was different, though, John suspected. Not that he knew. They'd find out.

+++++

They hadn't shot a deer that morning, or the morning after, but they got the hang of it eventually and it wasn't too hard to indulge in fresh meat every so often. Marcus got good at stalking the deer, but all it took was a wrong gust of wind and the thing would go bounding off into the trees, terrified by the scent of flesh over metal. He didn't let it get to him. The winter passed slowly, but it did pass, and the spring was a relief, coming with more green than Marcus had seen in years. Then the summer, still cool and overcast, but not dead. They were no longer surrounded by wastes. Marcus began to adjust to waking up to the sounds of birds again. The silence didn't close in around them as it might have even just two years earlier.

They dug in deeper and deeper, branching out in their diets, foraging as successfully as any hunter-gatherer, and the second winter wasn't quite so grim. Marcus kept waiting for the moment when Connor would get on his nerves, and vice versa, but it never came with any sincerity. They had their share of fights, once or twice coming to blows when the dark of winter was just a little too much, but it usually ended up with them in bed together again. They'd found peace, it seemed and the years passed without hide or hair of human or machine. Marcus had gotten him there.

Each time John woke up and heard the birds (even that one damned bird that seemed to sit on the windowsill and attempt to drive them insane with its tweeting), he was, in some small way, surprised to be alive still, and to be living this life.

This wasn't the world his mother prepared him for.

And in a good many ways, he was ill-prepared. Occasionally, he'd picked the wrong kind of berries or something and there was very little to be done except ride it out. Those and the fights, that were, as mentioned, rare.

So, too, was he unprepared for when the motion detectors he'd nearly forgotten they'd put into place went off.

John scrambled from the bed, the same time Marcus did, pulling clothes on, his heart hammering in his chest.

_Nononono_ was a steady mantra in Marcus' head. They hadn't even gone off for squirrels before and the larger game stayed away from their perimeter, but never in his whole life had Marcus wanted something more than how he wanted a deer to have stumbled past the motion detector. He stomped his feet into boots and grabbed the rarely touched assault rifle that stood in the corner of the small bedroom.

He stopped suddenly, just looking at John. _Too perfect_ his expression said, _it was too perfect for too long_.

Pausing just for a moment, John touched his face. It was probably nothing.

It wasn't nothing. It was a small band of what were clearly soldiers, part of a scouting platoon, perhaps, making their way toward the house. John crouched at the front window. His heart was rattling in his chest and maybe his hands shook a little. Securing the town, perhaps. Did this mean they'd won? Not necessarily. Without looking away, John whispered to Marcus, "don't fire unless they fire first."

Marcus nodded once, face grim and jaw set. He flicked the safety off the rifle and stood by the door, tense and unhappy. Human or not, Marcus would have been fine continuing on without any sign of civilization. But maybe they could just put these people up for the night and they would move on. It could be nothing. But then the dogs started to bark and they could see the soldiers ready themselves, eyes wide and focused. "Shit."

"Shit," was John's almost immediate echo. He stood quickly, crossing to where Marcus was. Side by side, they stood, waiting for something to happen. Maybe the dog would catch scent of a deer. They'd gotten sloppy lately; the place looked inhabited at best, lived in at worst.

The skittering of paws on the front door was a distraction. They heard the backdoor being kicked in and John shouted. "We are Resistance! Do not fire!"

Five soldiers stood in their kitchen, guns pointed at them.

"Resistance?" The dogs were straining on their leads toward Marcus, the incessant barking making his lips curl. His grip was tightening on the rifle and it was only when metal met metal that he realized he hadn't put the glove on.

"Metal!" One of the men shouted.

"NO! NO!" Gun dropped with a rattle, John stepped in front of Marcus -- if they shot Marcus, they'd shoot him. "No. It's not what you think. He's on our side. DO NOT fire your weapons at us." In our home! He wanted to shout. It was a _home_.

With something like resignation, he said, quietly, "I'm John Connor. Do not fire your weapons and take the dogs outside."

"John Connor, yeah right." A rifle muzzle jerked at them. "Prove it."

For a brief, blurred moment, John stared at them. How would he do that in a way they would believe?! Something a machine wouldn't know. "My daughter's name is Sarah, like my mother. And she should be ... about your age now." They'd kept Sarah away from anything and everything Skynet might find. She was the only thing he could bring up. If these soldiers didn't know, he had no idea what else to say.

"You --" One of the soldiers stepped forward. "You're --"

He focused on what of the face he could see between the helmet and the scarf. And when he thought it couldn't get any worse. The girl had Kate's eyes.

"Sarah, no!" One of the men behind her shouted. "Look at his hand! He's _metal_!"

For a moment it looked as though the young woman was about to lower her own rifle, but Marcus was watching an older man to the left. Just like in that gas station, a day neither he nor John had mentioned since it happened, he saw the exact moment when the decision was made. A cry tore from his throat and he dropped his gun to shove John aside, but the man had already pulled the trigger.

John had been shot a couple of times in his life. It always hurt. This was different though. This one wasn't going to be fixed. Somehow he knew that right away, and as he fell, he looked up at Marcus with something like surprise. He heard Sarah scream something but it sounded like it was in a tunnel somewhere. "Oh. Shit." His hand came up to his chest and it was warm there and wet. Shit.

"JOHN!" The rifle crashed when it landed and Marcus was already on his knees, tearing at John's shirt to get it out of the way, fumbling, distinctly human, struggling to find something to do. "John, John, come on..." the room had gone quiet, all of them staring at this machine whose face had twisted in panic. "You're all right. Connor, COME ON, look at me."

Green eyes moved his way, but they were cloudy. "It's bad," he pants out. "Isn't it, it's bad. Wright." John wanted to say something. Something profound. _You got me here. I love you. Take care of my daughter_. What came out was "fuck." To come so far, to die like this. "Wright--"

"No, no, don't you fucking dare. Don't you fucking leave me, Connor. COME ON!" He gave him a shake, oblivious to the stares. Marcus was crying, but he didn't notice that either. "Don't leave me, don't leave me." He bent forward so they were nose to nose, getting John's face wet with tears. "DON'T!" It was a wounded cry, more a howl than anything else. Marcus' hands, stained with blood, cradled his head.

At the last moment, things went numb. It was hard to breathe and John's vision was clouding. "Marcus-"

And with so little pomp and circumstance, John Connor was dead.

"JOHN!" The scream echoed over the lake. Marcus pulled him up, clinging to him, rocking and sobbing, the metal hand stroking over the back of his head.

"He's dead?" The girl's voice was small, lost sounding. She turned to the men. "GET OUT. You have no idea what you've done! Do you even know what you did?!"

"We don't know it was him!"

"It was him!" She screamed. "GET OUT!"

The dogs' barking receded as the men pulled back, out of the building as Sarah Connor knelt next to Marcus.

"Don't you fucking touch him," he sobbed, jerking away from the woman, "Oh God...oh _God_." He buried his face in John's throat, shaking violently.

"I didn't know - no one knew. He just was gone. We didn't know. You-- I remember you." She didn't move but to reach out to touch Marcus's shoulder. "You were in LA."

"I have to go..." he said, pushing to his feet and lifting John's body with him. Jesus fucking christ, John's _body_. He choked back more sobs, cradling the man close. "I have to go. I'm sorry. Fuck, I'm so sorry."

"Where are you going?" She followed him out, darting around, hands out to the other soldiers. "Don't! Don't -- Nobody do anything." Her voice carried a steel that told everyone she was John Connor's daughter.

"I have to go." He started to the door, such a weariness weighing his limbs down that he didn't think he would make it as far as lake.

"Please wait. Please." She stood in the doorway. "Please." Her face was drawn. "He's my father."

Marcus stopped, then turned and stepped forward to lay John out carefully on the kitchen table, the plates from their dinner the night before crashing on the floor. Marcus smoothed his hands over John's face, calmer, but still crying steadily. "Get them off my property," he said without looking up.

There was no answer, but he could hear her outside, shouting orders and gradually, the sound of dogs barking faded altogether. Then Sarah stepped back in to the house and shut the shattered door before she came over, heeling away tear tracks from her face. "You loved him, didn't you?" A machine - a near-machine.

Marcus was kneeling next to the table, wiping blood off John's face with a paper napkin. He didn't look up. "Yes," he said, voice hoarse.

"And he loved you." There was a certainty in her voice. "That's why he left."

"Yes," he said again, the word choked by fresh tears. His hand shook as it stroked John's forehead, weathered and scarred. "And no."

"My mother wouldn't talk about him. I ... I need to know. Please."

"You didn't need him anymore," he said after a minute of swallowing back more tears. "The resistance, I mean. If he'd stayed, they would have driven him out."

"Didn't need him?" Her disbelief showed and a moment passed before Sarah said, "we won. We were doing sweeps to take out the rest of any machines. Would he have -- does that matter?"

"Does what matter," he asked dully.

"That we won? Would he ... would that matter? To you? Both of you?"

"It mattered," he said, "but we were done. He'd...he was finished. He'd been doing this since he was born and he was done and now..." Marcus leaned forward, pressing his cheek to John's bloodied chest.

"I-I'm sorry. For your loss," Sarah whispered, her breath hitching. "I never knew him. I wish I had."

"He did too," he said back, "he was always thinking about you. I know he was. He couldn't stay. I didn't want to take him from you. I'm sorry."

"He thought of me?" There was no answer after that, but for the sound of two people crying. Minutes passed like this.

Finally, Sarah asked, "Should I tell -- what should I tell everyone?"

"Don't tell them anything," he said, "but don't let them forget what he did."

"All right." Another moment passed, then Marcus could hear steps on the floor, the door open and close and it was quiet again without even the birdsong they'd grown used to. Marcus and John were alone.

Marcus didn't sleep. He could hear Sarah and her platoon making camp a bit further into the woods. He watched John in the dark, just waiting until he knew enough of them would be asleep. It was around two in the morning when he pushed to his feet and gathered John up again. His feet were a little less heavy as he went down to the shore of the lake. He felt a little less tired, even if John was still a solid weight in his arms.

He came to a stop when the small waves licked at his boots. Marcus shifted John, curling him closer, before taking that first step.

_Don't go too deep._

"Almost there," he said evenly as he waded into the water, tightening his grip when he got chest deep and John's body resisted submerging. But it wasn't hard. Marcus just kept walking, letting the weight of the Coltan carry them down. He could walk along the bottom of the lake without trouble, not bothering to reserve breath. The machine in him screamed for him to stop. This was unacceptable. He could not self-terminate. But as easy as flicking a switch, Marcus silenced what he'd been fighting for so long. He just walked, disappearing under the water. _I'll get you there_.

++++++++++++++++

_My name is Marcus Wright."_

"Marcus Wright. Do you know me?"

"John Connor. I heard your voice on the radio. Very inspiring."

++++++

When Sarah Connor, John's daughter, came back to the house the next morning after dawn, for some reason, she wasn't surprised to find them gone. She didn't tell her soldiers anything. But she wouldn't let them forget what he did.

What no one would ever know, but would be spoken of in whispers that would gradually die away in the myth that was John Connor, was how he loved Marcus Wright, a half-man, half-machine who loved him back.


End file.
